


Totality

by rowenablade



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Crowley is Good at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Eventual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Eventual Happy Ending, Genital switching, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Memory Alteration, Mind Games, Non-Linear Narrative, Obsessive Behavior, Other, POV Alternating, Plot With Porn, Sadist Gabriel (Good Omens), Self-Harm, Sexual Coercion, Slow Burn, Stalking, Triggers, Unreliable Narrator, Whump, everyone is bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 58,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27526483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowenablade/pseuds/rowenablade
Summary: Crowley and Gabriel have a history together.Gabriel is the only one who knows about it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 322
Kudos: 164
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So.
> 
> This, like most of my GO fics, began as a prompt on the Good Omens Kink Meme:
> 
> "Gabriel rapes Crowley but wipes his mind after. He does it again later and wipes his mind again. He keeps doing it the same way and Crowley's instinct remembers the rape even if his mind doesn't - and he keeps having nightmares about it too thinking they're just bad dreams.
> 
> I would like him to figure a way out or Aziraphale to save him. Lots of comfort after!"
> 
> If this isn't something you're interested in reading, I strenuously suggest you avoid this fic. This is likely to be the darkest thing I've written for this fandom, and while I do have an eventual happy ending planned it will take a while to get there. I plan to update weekly until my buffer runs out. You know how it goes.
> 
> Chapter-specific content warnings will be put in the END notes for each chapter. This way people who want to avoid spoilers can do so, but everyone can also get a heads-up about sensitive content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are loved and appreciated, I try to respond to everyone at least once!

The world’s first total eclipse of the sun was just beginning, the bright desert light turning an eerie shade of grey, and the demon Crawley dug his heels into the sand and told himself that was the thing that was making him uneasy. Perfectly natural to be unnerved by the sun going dark in the middle of the day. As far as brand-new phenomena went, Crawley preferred the “rainbow” that had debuted a few decades earlier. On the other hand, Her Moodiness hadn’t felt a need to drown everyone on the continent as an opening act for the eclipse, so that was something.

The sun going out. Much scarier than any angel. Even an extremely powerful one. At least, that’s what Crawley was trying to tell himself.

“Gabriel!” The forced gaiety in his voice sounded flat and hollow on the desert wind. “Been a minute, hasn’t it? You’re looking, um…clean.”

The Archangel Gabriel, Messenger of the Lord, his wings and robes a blinding shade of white, spread wide his arms and spoke in a voice like booming thunder.

“Prepare for battle, foul demon! This village is under my protection!”

Crawley peered around the Archangel’s broad frame at the valley below. The village was a prosperous one, sure, but mid-sized at best, and of no strategic importance to Heaven as far as Crawley knew. He’d been sent to whisper in a few ears that the eclipse was a sign of ill tidings. Rile up the townsfolk, get them to burn a few innocent people as witches, maybe declare war on the next village over. Hardly work that needed an Archangel to thwart it.

“No offense, Gabs, but isn’t this a bit below your pay grade? What happened to the other chap?”

His counterpart was named Aziraphale, but Crawley thought it might be best to hide that he knew that. He’d actually been rather counting on his familiar adversary being the one stationed opposite him. Aziraphale seemed a reasonable sort; Crawley had hoped to talk the angel into a friendly game of dice for the fate of the town, or something similar.

He didn’t think Gabriel was going to go for that.

Gabriel frowned, his purple eyes aglow with divine purpose.

“The Principality Aziraphale is on another assignment. In Her infinite Wisdom, our Creator has sent me to appear before these, Her good and loyal servants, that they may witness Her latest miracle and be not afraid.”

“She gave _you_ dirt-side duty?” Crawley pouted in mock-sympathy. “Oh, Gabriel, what did you do? Get your robes dirty while smiting some heathens? Think about using a curse word?”

The frown deepened, Gabriel’s upper lip curling back a bit to show his perfect teeth. “That’s none of your concern, demon. Now, will you crawl back to the pit from whence you came, or will you stand and fight?”

“Uhh…” Crawley shuffled his feet. Fighting an Archangel was almost certainly going to go poorly for him, but so was returning to Hell having completely failed in his assignment. “Right, well, here’s the thing. I was sort of hoping we could reach some kind of compromise. Maybe you take the north side of the village and I’ll take the south?”

As the sky darkened, so did Gabriel’s features. “Is that how Aziraphale has been handling things?”

Realizing his mistake, Crawley inwardly cursed himself. Aziraphale might be the enemy, but Crawley didn’t want to get him in trouble with his bosses. Heaven might remove the Principality from his post, replace him with some empty-headed stick-in-the-mud, and half the fun of these earth-bound assignments would be gone. 

“No, no, of course not, we’ve fought it out loads of times,” Crawley said hastily. “Epic stuff.”

“So I’ve heard. He says you’re a formidable opponent.”

“Formidable. Right.” Crawley noticed with alarm that Gabriel was already shifting into a fighting stance, and tried to mimic it. He felt ridiculous. In addition to far greater supernatural power than Crawley had ever had access to, Gabriel had significant earthly advantages. Sizing up the Archangel’s physical corporation, Crawley could tell he had not had it long. Something about the way facial expressions played across his handsome features a half-second later than they were called for, the way he shifted on the balls of his feet as if he didn’t quite trust gravity to hold him in place. Crawley had been wearing a human form for longer, he was certain, and that might help him here, but Gabriel was all broad, flat muscle where Crawley was sinew and bone. If they fought, Crawley was going to get hurt.

Gabriel seemed to know that. Something about the boyish grin that settled onto his face told Crawley that he was looking forward to it.

“Come on, serpent,” he taunted. “Let’s have some fun.”

There was significant doubt in Crawley’s mind that this was going to be any fun for him. But he hardly had a choice, so he put on a mischievous leer of his own and raised his fists.

“Do your worst, halo-head,” he spat. They lunged at each other.

Two things occurred to Crawley very quickly. The first was that Gabriel’s ability to shape the world around him through will alone was leagues beyond his own. As they grappled, Crawley could feel reality bending around Gabriel’s conviction; he began to suspect that the blows Gabriel was landing hurt more than they should have, that his eye was keener and his aim more true, because Gabriel believed it must be so. 

The second thing was that, despite the near-certainty that he was going to lose, Crawley _was_ having fun.

There was something joyous about being locked in combat like this, something pure. Gabriel glowed with holy light, and beneath it Crawley felt his own dark form rise to meet it. Scales rippled across his back, his fangs grew long and he tasted venom. He threw himself at Gabriel, wrapping his agile limbs around him and throwing him to the ground, rolling and biting and snapping. He caught a fist to the jaw, a knee to the belly, but he didn’t care. The pain was part of the whole glorious experience. He was a creature of Hell, after all, wasn’t he? It was only right that he should feel pain, be steeped in pain, swim in it like water. Pain was good. Pain was _home_.

Gabriel’s amethyst eyes bored into Crawley’s amber ones as they tumbled, shining with joy, and Crawley laughed breathlessly as Gabriel grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him into the ground.

“Had enough?” Gabriel panted.

“Oh, are you still here?”

That earned him another savage body blow, and it was _perfect_. This was almost innocent, the two of them stretching these clumsy corporations they were only just beginning to understand. So much of what Crawley was feeling was new, to the point where he realized he was moaning softly under his ragged breaths, the physical sensations quickly growing overwhelming. But he wasn’t going through it alone; every time he caught Gabriel’s eyes he could tell the Archangel was feeling the same thing.

Maybe he and Aziraphale should try this, the next time they met. 

“Last chance, fiend.” Gabriel’s face was so close to Crawley’s that he could feel the angel’s breath on his lips. “Surrender now, or prepare to taste divine retribution.”

Crawley hissed and waggled his forked tongue. “Not bad, actually,” he said with a wink. “Fresher than I expected. What is that, mint?”

There was a dizzying rush as Crawley found himself being flipped, landing on his stomach with the side of his face ground into the dirt. As he coughed and gasped for air, he felt Gabriel’s knee weighing down on the small of his back, Gabriel’s hands grabbing his right arm and wrenching it viciously behind him.

Above them, the eclipse was nearing its peak. The sun was a white-hot crescent overhead, and the light shining down was the color of iron.

“Yield,” Gabriel growled, and then he twisted.

The pain shot through Crawley’s shoulder like a bolt of lightning. He thrashed, trying to use his innate core strength to get his free arm under him and shake Gabriel off, but all Gabriel had to do was shift his weight and apply more pressure to Crawley’s elbow. The pain redoubled, rattling down Crawley’s spine and setting his fingers to spasming wildly.

“Yield.”

“Sssscrew you.”

His face was shoved into the earth again, tiny pebbles tearing at the skin of his cheek. 

“Watch how you speak to me, you twisted little monster.”

“Or what, you’ll tear my arm off?” Crawley spat out a mouthful of dirt and blood. “Snake, remember? Take it. Take ‘em both. See if I care.”

Gabriel adjusted his grip and Crawley thought _Oh, bugger, he’s actually going to do it._ The apprehension he felt wasn’t so much at the pain such an injury would cause as it was at the bureaucratic nightmare that requisitioning a new limb from Spare Parts would be. Not to mention the installation fees. 

“Alright, alright, I yield!” he hollered. “Blessings, Gabs, did they add ‘sense of humor’ to the seven deadlies list since I left? You can’t tell when someone’s joking anymore?”

A soft chuckle from above. “Maybe in Hell the war has become a joking matter, but in Heaven we’re still taking it _very_ seriously.”

 _Are they?_ , Crawley thought, but did not say. Aziraphale never mentioned the war, either the one in the past or the one yet to come. Then again, Aziraphale wasn’t management. 

Management. Shit. They were going to throw the book at Crawley for completely failing in his assignment. He might as well let Gabriel tear his arm off; it would be one less part for his bosses to get at when he turned up down below to give his report. Unless…

Perhaps he could salvage the mission just a bit. Claim to have planted a seed, set a plan in motion of much greater import than riling up some addle-brained dust farmers. Sowing doubt in the heart of an angel, an _Archangel_ …Hastur and Dagon and all the rest would be very impressed to hear about that.

“So,” he drawled, squirming to try and take the pressure of his arm. “Company man through and through, are you? Surprised you didn’t just smite me on sight. Bit of a waste of your time, rolling in the dirt with a demon, yeah?”

“No need to expend that kind of energy on you,” Gabriel answered. 

“Or maybe you were just itching for a scrap,” Crawley suggested. “Come on, you can tell me. Like you said, got to stay sharp to prepare for the war. What’ve we got, another five-thousand so-odd years? That’s a _long_ time to delay gratification.”

“I assure you, _demon_ -“ a brutal twist to Crawley’s arm, but did he detect a note of defensiveness in that tone? - “there’s nothing gratifying about your company.”

“Are you sure? Cause you seem to enjoy this quite a bit.”

“These physical corporations are susceptible to immoral impulses. It is a demonstration of an angel’s natural grace to control them,” Gabriel responded. Crawley grinned, because _that_ was a parroted propaganda line, or Crawley was a duck-billed platypus. 

“Ah. Well, you _would_ be the expert.” Crawley craned his neck to look over his shoulder. Gabriel’s eyes were as hard as gemstones. “Aren’t those…impulses…a good thing, then? Gives you the opportunity to show even _more_ grace, if you think about it.”

Gabriel’s frown deepened. “What are you doing? Stop that.”

“Make me.” Crawley arched up into Gabriel’s weight, just enough to remind the angel how physically close they were. “You’ve got me here all helpless. No one would blame you for roughing me up a bit more, would they? You’re just punishing an evildoer.”

“Shut up.”

“No one needs to know if you enjoy it, Gabs. For all you know, it’s what _She_ wants you to do.”

It was as if the air around them dropped several degrees in temperature. “Don’t talk about Her.”

“Why? What’s She going to do, cast me into a lake of fire? Kind of loses its impact the second time around.”

“You want to be punished, demon?” Gabriel’s voice had taken on a rough edge, like there was something caught in his throat. “Fine.”

Another twist, and this time something _gave_ in Crawley’s elbow. Quite involuntarily, he struggled again, throwing his weight in exactly the wrong direction, and he heard the _snap_ before he felt the pain, or the rush of sickening heat that came before it.

 _Mission accomplished_ , he had time to think, and then the pain hit and he started to laugh.

It was wild, mad laughter, ripped from deep in his chest and sent wheeling out into the desert air on black wings. The clearest thing to Crawley was how triumphant it sounded, as if he wasn’t the one lying beaten and bloodied in the dust. 

“That’s what you wanted, huh? You like this?”

Crawley tried to taunt Gabriel again, but found his teeth were chattering too violently for him to answer. He felt cold. Was that supposed to happen? Perhaps it was a result of the eclipse. Above them, the sun had gone completely black.

“Well. That’s interesting,” Gabriel muttered. “So there is a way to shut you up.”

It _was_ interesting. Crawley could actually feel the tug-of-war between various chemicals in his body as they scrambled to adjust to the enormity of the pain. Nifty little vessels, these human corporations. Full of surprises.

He wanted to rest, now. He didn’t want Gabriel to hurt him anymore. But the hand holding Crawley’s head down tightened in his hair, grinding him into the sand, filling his mouth and eyes with a mix of dust, blood and tears.

 _Oh,_ he thought. _That’s new._ He hadn’t been aware he could cry, had vaguely assumed his eyes were too authentically demonic for that particular function. But here he was, leaking steadily as a fresh bout of shuddering coursed through him.

“Beast,” the Archangel snarled. “Reptile. _Worm._ ”

 _It’s worth it,_ Crawley told himself. _Even if he discorporates me. I made an Archangel sin. Wrath, and just a touch of Pride, wouldn’t you say, Gabs? Someone’s earned themselves a commendation._

“This is exactly what you’re meant for. Crawling in the dirt.”

 _I was made for the skies, same as you._ Crawley’s thoughts were becoming scattered. _She’s the one who put me here in the dirt._

“Say it.”

A hand twisted in his hair, forcing him to look up. Blackish-red mud stuck to the side of his face.

“You’re evil, Crawley. An abomination. You don’t deserve to exist. Say it.”

Crawley was not the strongest or the cruelest or the most diabolical of demons, but he didn’t forget a skill once he had learned it. He knew when things wanted things. It had started with Eve and he’d sensed it in every creature he met forevermore. Living things wanted. They wanted food, they wanted to mate, they wanted to eliminate or protect or control each other. 

Gabriel was not, technically, a living thing, but Crawley could still smell the “want” on him. A desire that had nothing to do with the fulfillment of duty.

“I’m an evil abomination that doesn’t deserve to exisssst,” Crawley spat, overdoing it on the s’s just to drive the point home. 

“Say, ‘Thank you, Gabriel, for reminding me of my place.’”

Crawley didn’t want to say that, he really didn’t, but Gabriel wanted it so badly, and it was so hard not to give in to that celestial force, telling him that whatever Gabriel wanted must be so.

“Thank you, Gabriel.”

His hair was yanked back harder. “For?”

“For reminding me of my place.”

“Good,” Gabriel sighed. “That’s very good. That’s…”

His voice trailed off. He wasn’t yanking on Crawley’s hair anymore. More just…petting it. 

“I like this.” Distant, now. Thoughtful. “This is…nice.”

Crawley slumped back into the dirt, the fire in his arm flaring up at the motion.

“Well, Gabs,” he answered. “Guess I’m good for something, yeah?”

A heavy silence fell over them. Crawley wondered if the killing blow was going to come now. Wondered if he’d overplayed his hand.

He wasn’t scared. Why wasn’t he scared? He was finding it difficult to feel much of anything at all.

“Maybe you are,” Gabriel finally said, startling him.

The weight on his back was lifted, and Crawley was grabbed roughly by the shoulder and rolled to look up at the sky. Gabriel, looming over him. The sun a dirty coin, beaming down that tarnished, silver light.

The Archangel raised his hand, and Crawley closed his eyes.

There was a sickening sound of crunching bone, and then the pain in his arm vanished. Crawley looked up through stinging eyes, feeling the blood on his face seep back through his skin.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“This,” Gabriel answered, and snapped his fingers.

************

Crawley looked down at the village, then up at the sky, and swore.

The eclipse was already well under way. He’d meant to get here just before it started, but must have miscalculated the timing. He looked around. He rather expected his counterpart, that odd duck Aziraphale, to be here, but it seemed Heaven had declined to send an agent to witness this celestial phenomenon. 

Strange, but Crawley wasn’t about to complain. He’d been sent up here to spread discontent, bend a few ears, make the townsfolk think the eclipse was a bad omen. Rile them up, get them to commit some violence. Easy assignment. Crawley could do it standing on his head, even factoring in that he was a bit late.

He bounded down to the village to make some trouble.

************

The next time Crowley witnessed a solar eclipse, Aziraphale was with him. They stood shoulder to shoulder and watched the sunlight turn from gold to silver, and Crowley couldn’t, for the life of him, understand why he felt like crying the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings for this chapter:
> 
> \- Fist-fighting resulting in broken bones  
> \- Verbal degradation  
> \- Implied sadism/masochism


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has read and commented so far! As a reminder, specific content warnings for chapters in this story are in the END notes.

Even as he was dragged up to Heaven, bound and helpless, Crowley wasn’t afraid.

He hadn’t felt afraid since the Devil’s appearance at the Tadfield Air Base. He might have lost the ability entirely, burned those circuits right out.

What he mostly felt, to be honest, was hungry.

A strange side effect of wearing Aziraphale’s body, he figured. Crowley didn’t get hungry in his own form unless he wanted to be, to enhance the enjoyment of feeding himself. He still felt his own thoughts and emotions and impulses in this corporation, but he could also sense the patterns the body was used to, the little bursts of electricity and pheromones that Aziraphale’s personality had trained into it. This body was used to nourishment on a certain schedule, and grumbled when it was denied. Snatches of music made his heart swoop in a way that Crowley’s own demonic heart had long learned not to do. There was some tight, fluttery feeling in his chest when he looked at himself, at Aziraphale in his form. Strange side effects, indeed.

But no fear, not even when they entered Heaven’s halls, not even when they tied him to a chair and stood by with expectant, almost giddy looks on their stupid holy faces.

Then Gabriel walked in, and Crowley’s stomach plunged.

Crowley tried to remember the last time he had seen Gabriel, before Tadfield, and truly couldn’t. It stood to reason they might have crossed paths on Earth on business, but Crowley’s only recollections of Gabriel were from before the Fall. Most of Crowley’s memories as an angel were lost to him, the way humans lost memories of their infancy. 

Why, then, did he suddenly feel sick? Why were his hands threatening to shake? 

What was it that Aziraphale’s body expected to happen, when faced with the Messenger of the Lord?

 _What did you do?_ Crowley wondered as their eyes met and his terror grew. _Gabriel, you absolute fucking prick. What did you do to my angel?_

**********

Cities were supposed to be one of humanity’s most stunning achievements, according to the Principalities that Gabriel supervised. Aziraphale, in particular, was prone to overwrought crowing in his reports about how intriguing such places were, how vital. Still, Gabriel couldn’t think of much to say about Babylonia besides that it was hot, crowded and loud. Even at night, which didn’t make sense at all.

The Almighty had sent him to appear in a dream to one of the king’s advisors, and while he was down there, “take in some of the culture”. Gabriel wasn’t sure what purpose that served, but he was hardly about to question orders from On High, so he did his duty and read up on local customs before making his earthward journey. Humans, he confirmed, still chose the daylight hours to work, eat and perform leisure activities outside of their homes, and reserved the nighttime for sleeping or mating in private. He expected to find the streets deserted after the sun went down, and was irritated to be constantly harangued by sensory input from passers-by brushing against him, merchants trying to sell him things, children begging for coins, the smells of food cooking or of humans micturating or vomiting outside certain buildings. How was he supposed to take in the local culture with all this _distraction?_

As if any of it mattered. 

_GO AMONG THEM_ , the Almighty had urged. _SEE AS THEY SEE._ It was nonsensical enough that Gabriel had to wonder if it was some sort of test. Human sight was, after all, inherently imperfect. Doomed to die and slaves to the whims of the flesh, humans turned from the Creator’s love and spent their pointless lives trying to make up for Her Grace’s absence. Were Gabriel truly capable of seeing things as they saw, he wouldn’t be an angel.

And Gabriel had no intention of letting the Almighty think he would be satisfied with _that._

Consider this building he now found himself outside. Were Gabriel the human male he was presenting himself as, he might find the smells of musk and spice wafting from the doorway enticing, instead of cloying and artificial. The music issuing forth might invoke a response in someone who had never head the holy melodies of the spheres, but to Gabriel it sounded hopelessly primitive. A human would look at the young female leaning against the doorway and be distracted by the burnished glow of her skin and the lurid red of her lips, but Gabriel could see beyond the flesh to the tangled mess of hunger and greed and desire that made up her essence and could only feel, at best, distant pity for her. 

A human also would not have been able to sense the malevolent presence lurking inside the building. Gabriel could, and it was that which drew him over the threshold.

Inside, the stink of sweat and rutting and flowers soaked in oil was so overpowering that Gabriel almost turned on his heel and walked right out again. How the Principalities were able to endure such prolonged exposure to the elements Gabriel did not understand. A serving girl touched his elbow and he jumped, almost swatted her away, before remembering such a move was likely to cave her skull in. Instead he concentrated and commanded those around to forget him, to not notice his face and to feel no desire to approach him. Ignored, he strolled deeper into the brothel, still pulled by that sense of the unholy.

He found the source of it on its knees behind a curtain, doing…something.

Gabriel wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at. From the smell and noises he guessed it was something related to fornication, but as far as he remembered that didn’t involve the mouths at all. The configuration the demon and the human were in made it hard for Gabriel to see the demon’s face, but he still saw the masses of curly red hair and serpent sigil and recognized Crawley.

The human male had his hands fisted into Crawley’s hair and appeared to be rather forcefully shoving his member into the demon’s mouth. Both of them were making noises that could be interpreted as either pain or enthusiasm, Gabriel honestly couldn’t tell. He knew Crawley wasn’t much of a fighter, but it seemed unlikely that he would have been overpowered by a human, so this encounter, whatever it was, must have been consensual. As to why anyone would be doing this…

There was no way the Almighty would have told him to go out among the humans and learn their ways, if She knew _this_ was what they were getting up to. 

Crawley looked different. He’d darkened under the desert sun, his hair bleached a more fiery shade than Gabriel had last seen on him. The only clothing he wore was a few black and red scarves twisted around his hips, and Gabriel thought his body looked a measure more curved, more ostentatiously sinuous. When the man moved his hand to cup the line of Crawley’s jaw, Gabriel saw it extended to the demon’s face as well. He looked softer, those angular lines filed down. Vulnerable.

Same eyes, though. In Her wisdom, God had seen to it that demons could never fully hide their true natures. The fact that there were humans who were willing to see such things and engage in carnal acts with them anyway just confirmed to Gabriel that they had wandered tragically astray. 

As if Sodom and Gomorrah hadn’t been a clear enough message. Gabriel wondered if that was the real reason She had sent him to Babylonia. Perhaps another lesson would be forthcoming. That could be fun.

Crawley had spotted him. Gabriel snapped his fingers and the human dropped into a daze, staring straight ahead of him, hands falling slack by his sides. Scowling, Crawley pulled his mouth off the human’s organ and rose to his feet.

“Gabriel,” he said. There was forced levity in the tone, but Gabriel could tell he was afraid. Good. He should be. “What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?”

“Serpent.” Gabriel smiled. It was too bad, really, that Crawley didn’t remember the thrashing Gabriel had given him that day they’d met. Gabriel doubted the demon would be making jokes if he remembered the pitiful way he’d cried when Gabriel had snapped his arm.

Still. He couldn’t have allowed Crawley to think he’d gotten the better of him, even in the twisted, self-defeating way that was evil’s only real option.

Oh, but showing that fiend his place had felt good. Too good.

“My business here is none of your concern.”

“Ah-ha.” Crawley grinned and held a finger to his lips. “Say no more. Here for a discreet bit of earthly delight? Let me recommend Kitra, first-timers are her specialty.”

“Don’t be disgusting,” Gabriel snapped. “I sensed an evil presence and came in here to investigate. Now that I’ve found _you_ , it’s my duty as an Archangel to smite you from this plane and banish you to the depths of Hell.”

He raised his hand, and Crawley balked.

“Hey, hey, easy now, Gabs. Lots of innocent bystanders around. You smite me, you may take out some of them.” 

Gabriel looked around, taking in the swaying figures beyond the curtain and the hypnotized man between them, his flaccid member still hanging out of his robe.

“Innocent?” He raised an eyebrow.

At last, real fear began to show on the demon’s face. He was probably surprised by how quickly Gabriel had seen through his pathetic attempt to use the humans as shields. As if Gabriel would let a few doomed sinners stand between him and his holy duties. 

Crawley shifted into a defensive stance, yellow eyes darting to the corners of the room. Preparing to run. Gabriel felt the shift in tension and pushed back a bit, binding Crawley to his current form and ensuring there would be no quick way out for him. It was easy. God’s will was on his side.

“Gabriel.” No mockery in Crawley’s voice, now. As it should be. “How about we settle this like adult-shaped beings, yeah? I’ll clear out and let you get on with…whatever it is you’re here to do, and you don’t need to hurt anybody. Sound good?”

“Why are _you_ here?” It occurred to Gabriel that perhaps one of these humans was of strategic advantage to Heaven, and Crawley might be here to corrupt them first. Perhaps that was why the Almighty had sent Gabriel; it certainly made more sense than wanting him to observe the mortals’ rituals.

“Oh, your standard temptations. Lust, covetousness, jealousy. Nothing worth troubling yourself over.”

The demon licked his lips after he spoke. He was still tense, shoulders drawn up tightly, fists clenched.

Was he lying?

Gabriel stared intently at him. He could sense fear on Crawley, still, and anger, but there was something else there as well. Some sense the demon was hiding something. 

He’d never concerned himself with knowledge of Hell’s byzantine political structure. Could Crawley be more important than Gabriel had been assuming? Could some vital plot be at work here?

Crawley still wanted to run, and Gabriel couldn’t hold him forever. He _might_ be able to get the demon to talk, but it was equally likely Gabriel would accidentally discorporate or destroy him before he got any useful information.

But Gabriel was God’s Messenger, blessed with power that extended far beyond the physical. And what were memories, really, but a message from the past to the present?

He walked over to the human, tugged on his robes until they covered him the way they were supposed to, and whispered in his ear.

“You just got here. Whatever you came here to do with him-“ he pointed at Crawley- “you still need to do it.”

He held up his hand, and relished the way Crawley flinched at the movement. He made a complicated gesture with his fingers.

Crawley stumbled, hands flying up to his eyes as if in reaction to a sudden pain. Gabriel took advantage of the moment to melt into the shadows.

When Crawley straightened up, the human man immediately went to him and put a hand on his arm, spoke some soft greeting to him. Crawley looked around, confused. For a moment his eyes paused on the spot where Gabriel stood, but quickly darted away when they found nothing.

Gabriel watched as the man took Crawley in his arms. Watched as kisses and light touches were exchanged, then rougher touches, and soon Crawley was back in the position on his knees where Gabriel had found him.

It quickly became obvious that whatever Crawley was doing here, it wasn’t for anything of great infernal importance.

Gabriel stayed and watched for a while anyway. He’d been sent down here to learn things, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings for this chapter:
> 
> -Implied prostitution  
> -Non-consensual voyeurism


	3. Chapter 3

When Aziraphale received word that his next assignment would require him to attend the gladiator games, he tried not to see it as a reprimand.

Since poor Yeshua’s death all of the archangels had been on edge, none more so than Gabriel. He was impatient, quick to anger, and enforcing rules with such rigidity that Aziraphale couldn’t so much as heal a child’s scraped knee without risking an audit. So Aziraphale could not help but wonder if this new assignment was a reflection, or even a direct result, of his supervisor’s latest mood. This was uncharitable, he knew. Surely some good could be accomplished, even in so brutal a setting. Never mind that Aziraphale had taken great care to avoid the games up until now, despite several tours of service in the Roman Empire. Never mind that the blood and the screams and clash of metal reminded him of the war and made him want to hide.

Angels were servants of the Lord. The most angelic thing Aziraphale could do was obey his orders without question.

So he went to the amphitheater, and watched humans fight and bleed while other humans watched and cheered. He ignored the queasy sensation in his stomach and told himself he was being foolish. He’d visited battlefields dozens of times, stood unseen over women as they died in childbirth, watched plagues claim thousands of lives with no regard to their innocence or virtue. There was no reason to think this was any worse, just because the humans were making a sport of it. No reason to remember the way he’d wept the first time he’d been forced to smite one of his fallen brethren, and wonder how God could love any creature who would make entertainment out of such a spectacle. She loved them, and so they must be worthy of love, even though Aziraphale could sense the desire among them to see blood, to hear screams, to smell death. 

No wonder Gabriel was so hard on him. He couldn’t even complete an assignment that was ninety percent sitting and waiting without having all these ridiculous thoughts. He was lucky to have kept his halo this long.

His reason for being there, at least, was one he could unambiguously support. There was a fighter, a slave, who Heaven had decided must survive his combat, so it fell to Aziraphale to make sure his hand was steady and his heart true. The slave fought bravely, dispatching his opponent with only the tiniest of blessings from the angel, and for his victory was granted his freedom. Aziraphale waited dutifully until the man had safely left the field of combat, and was about to take his leave himself, when the next two combatants entered the ring. 

The _secutor_ , heavily-armored as was custom, could have been anyone, but there was something distinctly familiar about the _retiarius_ he was squaring off against. The latter wore no helmet, and as he tossed his red hair back over his bare shoulders Aziraphale recognized the angular profile of the demon Crowley. He leaned forward in his seat, all thoughts of leaving having vanished.

Crowley did not see him. He concentrated squarely on the _secutor_ , circling away from the burly warrior’s short sword and seeking an opportunity to cast the net tied to his right wrist. In his left hand he held a trident, almost as tall as himself, the prongs long and slender to fit between the gaps in his opponent’s armor. Aziraphale now knew enough from watching the previous matches to spot the dagger belted at Crowley’s hip. He also knew that if the fight came to close enough quarters for Crowley to use the dagger, the demon was likely to be killed.

 _Why is he here?_ Aziraphale wondered as Crowley snapped the net at his opponent’s legs, trying to trip him. _Is he meant to curse somebody here? His opponent, perhaps?_

Aziraphale watched the match closely, but the _secutor_ was not performing as if he’d been infernally disadvantaged. In fact, he was fighting quite cannily, choosing him movements with deliberate precision and resisting Crowley’s attempts to make him tire himself out. 

_He is a demon,_ Aziraphale reasoned. _Perhaps he’s just doing this for fun._

It did look like he was enjoying himself. The fighting style of the _retiarii_ suited Crowley so well that Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder if the demon had had a hand in its development. He played to the crowd as he fought off the larger fighter, twisting out of the reach of killing blows with only a hair’s breadth of space to spare, taunting through a manic grin when he went on the attack. Around him, Aziraphale felt the energy of the crowd ripple and change, not in favor of the _retiarius_ but against him. The demon’s cockiness and palpable thrill at outwitting his opponent was making them angry, Aziraphale realized. Making them want to see him get hurt.

When it finally happened, the collective groan of approval from the crowd made Aziraphale’s stomach turn.

It wasn’t a mortal wound, just a slash across Crowley’s right upper arm, but the sight of blood seemed to ignite something in the _secutor_ , and he attacked with a renewed vigor that had Crowley scrambling to avoid being cleaved in half. Aziraphale watched, hands balled into helpless, white-knuckled fists, as the demon’s increasingly desperate moves caused him to lose both net and trident. The crowd jeered as he drew his dagger and beckoned the _secutor_ toward him, roared as the armored fighter lunged-

-and held its breath as Crowley darted right when he should have gone left, and the _secutor’s_ sword sliced cleanly along his stomach. Dark blood sprayed out into the dust at the gladiators’ feet.

The audience whooped in triumph. Crowley collapsed to his knees. Aziraphale barely managed to keep in his seat. Whatever reasons Crowley had for doing this, surely this hadn’t been part of the plan. Aziraphale was clearly able to see the pain on the demon’s face as he clutched his arm against the wound. For a moment Aziraphale dared to hope it was a ruse to get the _secutor_ to come within his dagger’s range, but then Crowley raised one bloody hand toward the referee in admission of defeat, and the jubilation of the crowd swelled anew.

All eyes turned toward the editor, none with more trepidation than Aziraphale’s. He knew what was going to happen next. The editor, who no doubt could sense the crowd’s desire for brutality, was going to order Crowley killed. The _secutor_ was going to run him through or cut his throat, and Aziraphale…

Well, Aziraphale was going to sit here and watch.

 _It’s just discorporation_ , Aziraphale thought frantically. _He’ll be back up here in a new body in no time. At worst it’s an inconvenience._

In the ring, Crowley curled around his bleeding stomach and looked up at the editor with pleading eyes. Gladiators weren’t supposed to show fear or beg for mercy, but Crowley wasn’t a gladiator, he was a fallen angel, and all Aziraphale had to do was look to see the terror in his face at once more being judged unworthy and cast down in pain. This was same creature who had tried to reassure Aziraphale, in his own peculiar way, as they stood on the wall of Eden together. Who had tried to remain callous and aloof during the Crucifixion, but had hidden his face under his cowl when Yeshua began crying for his mother. Who had, not quite ten years ago, let Aziraphale prattle on about his experiences on Earth over a shared plate of oysters, a tiny island of companionship in what had become for the angel an increasingly vast and cold sea of loneliness.

Aziraphale had seen so much death already. He couldn’t watch the only familiar face on this planet twist in agony and then slacken as the life drained away. It was too much to ask of him.

 _No,_ he thought as the crowd began to call for Crowley’s death. _No, he doesn’t deserve that, spare him, please._

His voice was one, lost in a swarm of many. But as an angel, his voice had metaphysical reach that others did not, and before he even realized he was doing it, he felt that desperate thought shift into a command, and wing its way toward the editor.

On the human plane of existence, nothing extraordinary happened. The editor blinked and turned his thumb, and the crowd’s bloodthirsty chanting faded into sullen murmurs of disappointment. Crowley was assisted, hobbling, from the field of battle, while the _secutor_ stepped forward to be officially declared the victor.

On the plane where Aziraphale’s angelic senses resided, he felt the miraculous energy leave him and work its will upon the world. He felt the cosmic push and pull as molecule by molecule, events were changed and moved and rearranged until courses were altered, and a being who would have died instead continued to breathe and bleed and shape the world himself.

Aziraphale felt it all, and knew he was going to be in very big trouble.

***********

He found Crowley in an alcove not far from the arena, healing himself inch by labored inch.

Even with his metaphysical senses on full alert, even specifically looking for the demon, Aziraphale almost walked right past him. The wards Crowley had thrown up to protect himself were inelegant but stable; the urge to ignore the man-shaped being in the alcove and go about his business was so strong that Aziraphale actually had to forcibly wrench his head in Crowley’s direction to look right at him. Any human passing by wouldn’t even register there was someone there.

Crowley was pale, bedraggled hair hanging in his face, hands grimed with dried blood. He was still dressed only in the loincloth in which he’d been fighting, and Aziraphale could clearly see the wound on his stomach as Crowley miracled it closed. He’d never seen a demon perform healing magic before. It was colder than his own technique, more surgical. The edges of the wound were forced to knit together, the blood still dribbling out where the magic had not yet reached. It looked like it hurt.

When he looked up, his eyes were bright yellow and furious.

“What,” he panted, “in bloody _fucking_ Heaven did you do that for?”

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale wasn’t evading; he’d barely heard the question. His mind was entirely focused on getting Crowley’s help to establish a cover story. Gabriel was bound to show up sooner or later demanding an explanation as to why Aziraphale had taken control of a human’s actions. Surely Crowley would help him; he’d saved his life, after all, and he had no reason to make life any easier for Heaven’s upper management.

“The editor,” Crowley snapped. He’d abandoned the task of healing himself halfway through, the wound on his stomach spurting with each ragged breath. “I had him, I had the whole crowd in the palm of my blasted hand, and you ruined _everything!_ ”

“What, by saving your life?”

“My _what?_ ” Crowley’s hand flew to his forehead, incredulous. “Aziraphale. This is a _body_.” He struck himself across the face, leaving a smear of blood across his cheekbone. “It’s _meat_. It’s _nothing_. What _is_ something is the opportunity to have a whole arena full of people cheering and clapping while I begged them to spare me.”

Aziraphale frowned. He had an absurd urge to grab Crowley’s wrist to keep him from slapping himself again. “You meant to lose the fight?”

“Forget the fight! I meant to give them a show, didn’t I? You heard them all back there. They wanted him to kill me, they wanted to see me suffer, angel. And if they’d gotten what they wanted? Think of it. All those souls, leaving that arena just a little bit more tarnished. You can’t get those kind of results working them one at a time.”

“That’s…” Aziraphale took a step back. “That’s awful.”

Crowley’s lips twisted into a acidic smirk. “Yes, well, in the job description, isn’t it? And instead, because you couldn’t mind your own _fucking business_ , they’re all going home having learned a thing or two about mercy. Questioning their bloodlust, maybe resolving to be a little more _compassionate_. I mean, Satan, do you have any idea how badly you’ve _screwed_ me?”

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale’s own voice sounded far away. This conversation had gone so differently than what he had been expecting, it was making him dizzy. “I didn’t think…I’m sorry.”

Scowling, Crowley turned back to the work of healing himself. “You’ve got some nerve, angel. Just cause we shared a couple of drinks doesn’t mean I’m going to roll over and let you score points off me, you know. It’s a big world. I’m sure you can find your own holy deeds to do without interfering with my evil ones.”

“That wasn’t why I stopped him!”

It was clear Crowley didn’t believe that, judging by the way his eyes rolled suspiciously upward. “Why, then? Hoping to get me in your pocket? That won’t work either.”

“No!” The bitterness in Crowley’s voice was tangible. Aziraphale could practically taste it in the air between them. He was clearly irate at having been thwarted, and by all rights Aziraphale should be feeling pretty good about that, but all he felt was lost, and lonely. “I didn’t _plan_ to do it. I’m sorry I’ve inconvenienced you, truly I am, I just…didn’t want to see that happen to you.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. He looked very snakelike all of a sudden, upper body swaying just a bit, leaning forward as if trying to taste ill intent from Aziraphale’s presence. 

“I’ve been through worse.”

“I just didn’t want to watch them hurt you.” To his utter mortification, Aziraphale felt his bottom lip quiver and his eyes start to itch. He tried to stop it; Crowley would surely never let him hear the end of it if he started crying in front of him. It was all too much; the centuries of isolation, the constant, grinding stress of keeping his supervisors happy, the endless cycle of birth and blood and death that he was fated to bear witness to. It hurt, it all hurt so much, and angels weren’t built to endure pain…

He felt the tears start to trickle down his cheeks and frantically reached up to brush them away.

“Hey.”

Crowley’s voice was different. Softer. A bony hand reached out and settled on Aziraphale’s shoulder, tentatively, as if worried he might find the fabric of the angel’s tunic scalding hot.

“Come off it, Aziraphale, none of that. ’S’just a stupid misunderstanding, no need to make a fuss. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”

An apology. Crowley was apologizing to him. Aziraphale thought his crying might very well dissolve into hysterical laughter if he contemplated it too closely.

“Not like you can help it, yeah? Trying to help. Let’s just chalk this up to wrong place, wrong time. What do you say?”

Aziraphale looked up. Crowley had stepped much closer to him, to be better heard with his new soft voice. His eyes had mellowed, were searching for Aziraphale’s own, and they…

They were…

Aziraphale closed the last few inches of distance between them and kissed the demon on the lips.

Later, he would be unable to explain to himself why he had done it. He would make excuses; his loneliness, the strange vulnerability in those yellow eyes, the simple, almost primal urge to obtain something sweet to balance out all the horror he’d witnessed. Nothing fully explained why he went ahead and did it. 

There was a startled gasp from Crowley when their lips touched. His hands flew up to bunch in Aziraphale’s tunic, a gesture that could be meant to push him away or pull him closer, but neither happened. They both stood right where they were, still encased in Crowley’s demonic wards, the humans walking by totally unaware that an event equal in impossibility to diamonds raining from the sky was occurring right before them.

So this was kissing, this warm, soft, nearly liquid thing. Crowley’s mouth moved against his, and Aziraphale tried to mimic it, understanding in that moment that this was not the first time Crowley had done this. Others had kissed him, others had maybe done more, and the knowledge of that, the awareness of Crowley not as a human-shaped manifestation of evil but as a flesh-and-blood being who could give and receive pleasure made Aziraphale suddenly go weak in the knees. Crowley could touch, Crowley could _feel_ , and so could he. Aziraphale had never bothered to equip himself with an Effort, but the realization that he _could_ set that plateau between his legs to tingling anyway. He could shape himself something, and if he did it would be utterly in thrall to this touch, real not as God’s love was real but as the air they breathed was real. He breathed into Crowley’s mouth and slid his arms around the demon’s waist and wanted and wanted and _wanted_ -

Crowley pulled away, eyes huge in his bloodied face.

“Bad idea, angel,” he whispered.

A few vital seconds passed, during which Aziraphale could feel the spell break and his rational mind take over again.

What could he possibly think he was doing? He was going to be in enough trouble as it was, if anyone found out he had allowed himself to be overwhelmed by his corporation’s base urges, and with a _demon_ …

He’d Fall. There was no question of it. Angels more beloved than him had been cast out for much less.

“Yes,” he stammered. “Yes, of course, terrible idea. Don’t know what I was thinking.”

“My fault, probably.” Crowley tried on a crooked smile and found that it held. “Tempter, you know? Let’s call it a matter of mixed signals and move on.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said. “Move on.”

“What say we just pretend that didn’t happen? Sound good?”

It was the only option, but still Aziraphale’s heart sank. He was certain the incident wouldn’t be acknowledged again, but he was equally sure that things could never be the same between them. He doubted he would ever see Crowley up close again.

“Absolutely,” he said. “Pretend it didn’t happen. I should, er, be on my way now. I’ll have some explaining to do to Gabriel.”

A shadow passed over Crowley’s features. “Is he here?”

“Not yet, but he will be.” Aziraphale sighed heavily. “Did you ever work with him. Um…before?”

Crowley’s brows knit. “No.” He shook his head, slowly. “No, I don’t…I barely remember him, really.”

He abruptly straightened up and snapped his fingers. The rest of the blood disappeared, and a tunic materialized from thin air and covered him from shoulder to mid-thigh.

“I should go.” He sidled past Aziraphale, keeping a good foot of space between them. “Got some explaining of my own to do. Good luck with Gabriel and all that.”

“Yes. Good luck with, um, your thing as well.”

Crowley waved over his shoulder without looking back and merged into the steady flow of pedestrians. Aziraphale watched him go, lips still tingling, the faint taste of phantom tears on his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter:
> 
> -Gladiator-style violence, including injuries that would most likely kill a human


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, noncon begins in this chapter and will be a consistent element of future chapters for a good while. As before, specific warnings are in the end notes.

Hellfire wouldn’t destroy Crowley, but that didn’t mean it was harmless.

The stuff was intended, of course, to burn, not just flesh but souls. Left unchecked, it ate away at thought and memory until nothing remained but the ashes of what had once been consciousness, too stricken by the absence of God’s love to remember how to be anything but dust. Some souls made for better kindling than others, but all things burned eventually. Even the most wretched of demons maintained something of a self-preservation instinct, and it would take a creature of obliteratively low self-regard to not feel, at least, a slight tickle in Crowley’s situation.

Crowley’s regard for himself was fairly high, and his protectiveness for Aziraphale’s borrowed form was higher. The Hellfire was going to do a bit more than tickle, and it was vital that Crowley do everything in his power to hide this.

Not because it would give the game away, and not because Crowley thought it was what Aziraphale would want. It was because of the look in Gabriel’s eyes as he stood before the pillar of flames.

Gabriel knew exactly what Hellfire did. Knew the pain it caused, knew the traumatized remains it left behind.

And he was looking forward to seeing that happen to Aziraphale.

It was in the eyes, the set of the shoulders, the clench of the jaw. In the way he tracked the tiniest of Crowley’s movements, as if he were intent on memorizing every detail of what was about to happen.

Crowley knew when things wanted things, and he knew a sadist when he saw one.

Which made it all the easier to smile, to roll Aziraphale’s shoulders as if the fire were a hot shower after a long, hard day’s work, to look into the Archangel fucking Gabriel’s face and watch that look of anticipation curdle into disappointment.

_Aziraphale,_ Crowley thought. _I don’t know what you did to make him hate you so much._

_Whatever it was, it makes me love you even more._

——

It wasn’t Crowley’s first kiss. Humans had kissed him lots of times. Occasionally he had even kissed them back.

It was part of the job. Humans wanted things, Crowley encouraged them to pursue what they wanted, and sometimes wires got crossed and they believed what they wanted was him. Usually a taste was all it took for them to be satisfied and move on to their next fleeting fancy. When it wasn’t, well, Crowley didn’t mind. He had always been curious by nature.

His corporation wasn’t him, or not all of him. It was more like a limb, attached to him, valued, undeniably useful, but calling the body he inhabited “himself” was really about as inaccurate as referring to a severed arm as “a man”. Humans could kiss him, take their pleasure of him, even destroy his body, and they weren’t _really_ touching him.

Aziraphale, though…

The angel existed in the physical world the same way Crowley did. He had a form that resided on an unseen plane, the same place where Crowley’s wings hid, and when Aziraphale had kissed him Crowley had felt himself being kissed _there_ , too. Not just two human bodies pressing their faces together but an angel and a demon, touching, for no other reason than a desire to touch.

It couldn’t have been meant to happen. It _shouldn’t_ have happened.

But it had. 

It mustn’t ever happen again. For the safety of both of them, it couldn’t happen again.

But he wanted it to.

No one had touched him, really touched him, since Heaven. The thought that what had just passed between him and Aziraphale might be the last time it _ever_ happened made his heart sink like a stone.

He arrived at the _insula_ in which he’d been dwelling for the past year or so, a two-room flat in a dusty tenement that contained a bed, a chest full of demonic odds and ends, and precious little else. He missed his well-appointed _domus_ in the capital. He’d hung onto it for as long as he had dared, but soon his curious agelessness, barbarian coloring and strange behaviors had drawn too much attention to simply dispel with a casual bewitchment. In a few more years he could return to the capital as his own son and start the whole process over again, but for now he was laying low and doing what he could to keep his numbers up on the fringes of society.

He frowned as he stood in the _insula’s_ doorway. He had not intended to come back here. He was supposed to be down in Hell, waiting on line to receive a new body and being congratulated by management on his resourcefulness. 

“Stupid angel,” he muttered to himself, but he said it fondly.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” said a voice right behind him.

Crowley spun. He’d been a _retiarius_ on and off for years now; he had the reflexes to show it. His dagger was in his hand when he came face to face with the intruder, his teeth bared in a feral hiss.

The Archangel Gabriel stood blinking in the doorway, looking at Crowley like the demon was a small child brandishing a stick, playing at soldier.

“Aziraphale tries,” Gabriel sighed. He spoke as if he and Crowley were in the middle of conversation, as opposed to them speaking for the first time since Crowley’s outfit had included a halo. “Eager to please. Does what he’s told. But he’s naive. I knew you were going to be trouble for him eventually.”

One didn’t last long as a demon if one couldn’t immediately begin thinking several steps ahead when things went horribly wrong. Crowley backed away slowly, weighing the benefits and risks of running, fighting or deflecting, keeping one eye on Gabriel’s hands and one on his face. 

“Gabriel,” he said, stalling for time. “Been a minute, hasn’t it?”

The archangel broke into a smug smile. “You said that before.” He raked Crowley with his eyes. “You look different.”

Ah yes, par for the course for good old Gabs, jumping right to what he considered a scathing remark, no doubt. Reminding Crowley of the creature of beauty and innocence he’d once been. Well, two could play at that game.

“You look a little rough around the edges yourself,” Crowley sneered. “No time for grooming up in Heaven these days?”

Gabriel did not appear insulted. His smile only deepened. 

“I think I liked you better as a whore,” he remarked, stepping over the threshold. “But this is interesting, too.”

Crowley had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but it didn’t matter. He saw his chance and went for it. Gabriel turned his body slightly away to pull the door shut behind him, and Crowley seized the moment to collapse into his snake form, meaning to slither beneath the door and then take off running. He could lead Gabriel on a long enough chase to give Aziraphale some time to come up with a cover story, then lose him and report back down to Hell. At least down there he knew what was coming to him.

He made it partly through the transformation, scales spreading, limbs retracting, when white-hot pain shot through him, sizzling over his skin and driving him to his knees. Knees, he noticed, he had kept, along with the rest of his human body.

“I don’t think so,” Gabriel said. “I like _this_ form. So you’ll stay like this.”

Now shut into the room with Crowley, he closed the distance between them with a few easy strides, grabbed Crowley by the throat, hauled him to his feet and shoved him against the wall. 

“I saw you and Aziraphale,” he hissed into Crowley’s face. Crowley’s guts twisted in fear not so much at the words (for he’d known, hadn’t he, of course Gabriel had seen them, why else would he be here?) but at the cold fury in his voice. He was throttling Crowley with one hand as easily as he might hold a paintbrush. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I know,” Crowley wheezed, grabbing onto Gabriel’s wrist. “I was angry at him for foiling me, and I thought I could get revenge by tempting him. Stupid plan, he saw right through it. All I did was waste my time.”

“Every moment of your time that is wasted is a gift for all things decent and good,” Gabriel intoned, his teeth flashing as he spoke. “Did you enjoy it?”

“N-nno.” Crowley hoped that was the answer Gabriel wanted to hear; he didn’t have the oxygen for much more of an explanation.

“Why not? He’s an angel, he’s _supposed_ to be appealing.”

“Not my type,” Crowley grated. He didn’t like where this was going, not one bit. “Swear, Gabs, just trying to trip him up is all. Won’t happen again.”

“Do not,” Gabriel said, “presume to know God’s will.” 

He crushed their lips together without taking his hand away from Crowley’s throat.

It was so startling that Crowley forgot to breathe. When he started again it was a harsh, labored attempt. He clawed at Gabriel’s wrist, desperate to get his throat free and breathe properly again, but Gabriel only responded by tightening his grip and seizing another kiss from him. Crowley’s lips mashed against his teeth, his head ground against the wall to which he was pinned. It was nothing like kissing Aziraphale except for the parts which were horrifyingly similar. Namely, the electric taste of divinity and the sense of their manifestations on a higher plane, joining and creating cosmic sparks where they rubbed together.

But he and Aziraphale were more or less equals on that plane. Gabriel was so much larger than him in the world-outside-the-world, his essence overwhelming Crowley’s and holding it, tightening around it, _squeezing_ -

The room was going grey at the edges, narrowing until the violet points of Gabriel’s eyes were the only things he could see. His knees buckled. _I’m passing out_ , he realized. The thought of being unconscious in Gabriel’s presence brought with it a galvanizing rush of panic.

He kicked, catching Gabriel in the knee. Gabriel laughed in response, and before the horror of that could really sink in he used his free hand to punch Crowley in the stomach. The last of his air was forced out his mouth in a stinging rush, leaving him able to do nothing but wriggle helplessly as everything started to go black.

“I know he’s not your type, Crowley,” Gabriel said in a far-away voice. “I know what you really need.”

At last, the grip on his throat eased. Crowley was sickened to realize that his first thought, when he could have thoughts again, was _Thank you_. He bit down hard on his tongue before the words could escape. He didn’t grovel for anyone, not anymore.

Gabriel had stopped choking him, but he hadn’t let him go. He was holding Crowley up by the shoulders now. A thumb brushed over Crowley’s lips, nudging them apart, and that panic flared up again. The issue of whether or not he was about to be strangled to death had quite distracted him from that other thing.

He snapped at Gabriel’s probing fingers. Whatever hold Gabriel had on him wouldn’t let him bare his fangs, but he could still bite damned hard with his human teeth. Gabriel yanked his hand away.

“Don’t,” he said. “Not unless you want me to make you beg for air again.”

“I didn’t _beg_ ,” Crowley snarled.

“Oh, but you did,” Gabriel chuckled. “With your eyes.”

There was something about the way he said that, the intimacy implied, that made Crowley nearly hysterical with a need to get away. If Gabriel didn’t back off, and soon, he was going to start biting and thrashing no matter how futile such gestures might be.

“What do you want?” His voice was a harsh, accusatory thing. Not tempting in the slightest.

Gabriel gripped his chin and kissed him again, more softly this time. Somewhere inside his mind Crowley was howling with rage. Aziraphale had kissed him today, and if Crowley had left this day with nothing else it would have been enough to sustain him for years, and here Gabriel was ruining it. Crowley would never be able to remember the first-

- _only_ -

-time the angel kissed him without this wretched experience rising up alongside it.

_It isn’t fair. I was just trying to do my job. It isn’t fair._

But it never was, was it? How had he still not gotten his head around that?

“I want to know how they feel,” Gabriel answered him. “The humans you let touch you.”

The hand that wasn’t gripping Crowley’s face slid between his legs, rubbing him through his clothes, a sensation so unexpected that all Crowley could do was gasp. Gabriel seemed to take this as encouragement, and slipped his hand beneath Crowley’s tunic.

“I’ve seen what you like. Aziraphale can’t give it to you, but I can.” He was fumbling at Crowley’s clothes, trying to get at whatever bare skin he could, never breaking eye contact. “It’s better if I do this. If you’re going to be tempting my subordinates, I need to know what they’re dealing with. This is a win-win situation for both of us.”

Crowley managed a laugh through the thickening revulsion in his throat. He’d heard enough humans try the same trick, try to logic whatever monstrous thing they wanted to do into actually being for the best. Thousands upon thousands of times he’d heard it.

Very often it was the last thing they did before finding themselves in Hell.

_He’ll Fall,_ Crowley thought, as Gabriel stole another kiss from him and chased the taste of Aziraphale’s lips a little farther from his memory. _An angel can’t commit rape and keep his halo. Even if the victim is a demon, the act itself is unforgivable. It has to be._

Crowley let his arms fall by his sides.

_It’s just a body._

Gabriel’s brow furrowed in confusion. He’d finally managed to work his way under Crowley’s undergarments.

“You don’t have anything. Why?”

“Oh, I never wear it on a job,” Crowley snapped back. That wasn’t entirely true, but he never bothered wearing an Effort when fighting; just another place to get hurt, as far as he was concerned. 

“Well, that’s not how it works. Give yourself something. Now.”

He dug his fingers into the smooth, naked flesh, and even in the absence of anything more sensitive, it hurt. Crowley gritted his teeth and considered his options, which basically came down to manifesting a cock that would immediately be crushed in Gabriel’s punishing grip, or a cunt that his fingers were optimally placed to shove directly into.

Deciding that blinding pain was preferable to having Gabriel penetrate him in any way, Crowley closed his eyes and let his flesh change under the archangel’s hand. The pain started right away- Gabriel seemed startled by the sudden movement and actually squeezed _harder_ \- and Crowley struggled and let out an involuntary hiss.

“Don’t do that,” Gabriel ordered immediately. “It’s disgusting.”

“Right, I’m the disgusting one.” With nowhere to retreat to and Gabriel still holding him in place, Crowley’s options for lessening the pain amounted to little more than shifting his hips back and forth, a movement far too ambiguous for his liking. Judging by the way he smirked, Gabriel interpreted it in exactly the way Crowley didn’t want him to.

“You are. Look at you. You’re already getting aroused from this.”

Crowley was fairly certain he’d never been less aroused in his life, but either his corporation had other ideas or it wasn’t entirely under his own control. He had a notion it was more likely the latter; something about the way he hardened to fill Gabriel’s hand when the archangel eased up on his grip was too orchestrated, too perfectly synchronized to fit in with Crowley’s usual messy, reckless experience of sex. 

In that world-beyond-the-world, something made of black, glossy scales and feathers twisted under the glare of merciless, purple light.

“You like this,” Gabriel told him. An instruction, not an observation. 

Crowley said nothing. Let Gabriel believe whatever he wanted. Whatever would walk him deeper into the trap he was setting for himself. No amount of rationalization could change that Crowley didn’t want this, he’d never wanted this, and whatever Gabriel was about to do was a sin.

_This could have been Aziraphale,_ his mind helpfully piped up. Crowley shoved that thought away as hard as he could. It stung too much, and besides, he’d never confuse what was happening to him now with what might have happened with the principality. Aziraphale wouldn’t yank at Crowley’s clothing so roughly he could hear the seams pop. Aziraphale wouldn’t force his tongue into Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale wouldn’t grab the head of his dick hard enough to force another hiss of pain out of him, then slap him for the noise.

He waited for it to get worse, for Gabriel to force him to his knees or drag him over to the bed, but neither of those things happened. As he groped and bit and shoved at Crowley he seemed to do so with an air of growing frustration. 

“’S’matter, Gabs? Performance anxiety?”

“Shut up.” Gabriel was looking rather disheveled himself, hair mussed and color high. 

“No substitute for field experience, that’s what I always say,” Crowley taunted. “Tell you what, how about you throw on a prettier disguise and make some rounds at the brothels. Come back here when you’ve figured out what to do with whatever you’ve got.”

Gabriel hit him again, knocking Crowley’s head back against the wall. As his vision swam Crowley felt the archangel’s grip return to his throat, his other hand pinning Crowley’s left wrist to the wall.

“You do it,” Gabriel snarled. “I know you know how.”

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Crowley started to say, but was cut off by fingers crushing his windpipe. It hurt even more this time, the flesh under Gabriel’s fingers already badly bruised.

“Alright,” Crowley wheezed. “Alright, I’ll show you, just…stop…”

“Yes.” Gabriel’s eyes fairly lit up. “Yes, like that. That’s good.”

With the hand that wasn’t pinned against the wall, Crowley reached down to rub his palm against the front of Gabriel’s tunic. From what he could feel, the angel’s Effort was distressingly similar in size and shape to his own. Before he could stop it, the awful notion occurred to him that Gabriel had manifested it on the spot, using Crowley’s as a template.

_Has he never done this before? Why now? Why_ me?

One-handed and still low on oxygen, Crowley managed to loosen Gabriel’s tunic and slip his hand underneath, curling his fingers around the archangel’s length. Gabriel inhaled sharply as if in pain. Crowley briefly considered just twisting the blasted thing off and letting the consequences play out as they would, but no. No, it would be better if he could endure this and let Gabriel damn himself.

Keeping his grip gentle, Crowley stroked slowly up and down, trying to avoid eye contact. Gabriel didn’t make it easy. His eyes bored into the side of Crowley’s head, his breath hot on Crowley’s neck. 

“You begged,” he panted. “You’ll always beg. Spineless little beast.”

Crowley wasn’t listening. His eyes were closed and he was thinking about a kiss. 

_That was real,_ he told himself as he worked his wrist steadily, ignoring the growing cramp in his arm. _Whatever else happens, that kiss was real and no one can take it from me. She can punish me all She wants, but She can’t change the past._

He could tell Gabriel was getting close by the way his hands tightened on Crowley’s throat and wrist. Soon Crowley was shaking, his legs weak and his vision going dark at the edges once again. He focused all his dwindling energy on the movements of his right arm, desperate to have this over with, chasing the image of Gabriel screaming as his wings turned black. It would be worth it. It _had_ to be.

Finally, Gabriel climaxed with a few sharp gasps, his hand tightening so hard on Crowley’s neck that Crowley heard something inside crack. He felt come spurting over his hand and wondered if that was the last thing he was going to feel before everything went numb, if Gabriel had snapped his neck and Crowley’s nervous system just hadn’t caught up yet.

_Go on,_ he thought. _Discorporate me. I’d love to get a good seat at your welcome reception._

He didn’t die. Gabriel let him go, and after a few seconds of helpless retching Crowley was able to move his arms and legs again. He looked up from his doubled-over position, hoping the change had already started.

Gabriel looked the same as ever, if a bit flushed and wild-eyed. He had already miracled himself clean and was tucking his clothing back into place.

“First time, Gabs?” Crowley rasped. “I hope it was worth it. You’ll Fall for that, you know.”

Gabriel’s eyes widened, and then he smiled. It was the bright, sunny grin of a man who’s just come into good fortune that he secretly suspected he deserved all along.

“No,” he said. “No, I don’t think I will.”

Crowley saw the look on his face, felt the way his grace remained unchanged, and wanted to burn down Heaven. He wanted to watch blackened flesh and bloody feathers rain from the sky.

_It isn’t fair_ , he thought helplessly, the same desolate voice he’d thought with on his last day in Paradise. _It isn’t FUCKING fair._

Aziraphale. He had to warn Aziraphale. Gabriel might not Fall, but this was deeply and fundamentally _wrong_. Surely he would feel the same way when Crowley explained it to him.

Wouldn’t he?

_He kissed me. That happened. He cares, he does, he’ll help me._

“Now, Crowley,” Gabriel said softly. “Have you learned your lesson? Save the tempting for the humans?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said through his teeth. “Hear you loud and clear.”

“Good. That’s good.” Gabriel reached out to cup his cheek, smiled when Crowley flinched away. “It’s good to know you learn quickly. Hopefully this will be easier for both of us, next time.”

Crowley’s eyes itched. 

_Next time. Last time._

“As for this unfortunate incident…both of them…I think it’s best I keep the details to myself,” Gabriel continued.

“What-“ Crowley began, and then everything went black.

——

The next time Aziraphale saw Crowley, the games had fallen out of favor. Aziraphale was operating as a philosopher, Crowley disguised as a wealthy merchant, and the two of them exchanged nods at the baths upon recognizing each other.

For about two years Aziraphale had waited for the retribution for that kiss and the events that preceded it. When said retribution never came, Aziraphale found himself thinking of it in more relaxed moments, playing the memory of it over and over in his head. The warmth of it, the swoop in his stomach, the taste of Crowley’s lips; he became more and more worried that one day he would realize he had forgotten the details. There were so many things to experience on Earth, after all.

He waited outside the baths for Crowley, who seemed pleased enough with the angel’s company, and the two of them strolled down the darkening streets. They passed several alcoves on the way, and with each one Aziraphale tried not to picture pulling Crowley into their sheltering darkness and kissing him again.

“Well,” he said when a lull in the conversation came. “I’m glad it seems there was no serious consequence from last time.”

“What, you mean the oysters?” Crowley asked. “Nah, but I still don’t get what you see in them.”

“I’d be happy to join you if you’d care to give them another chance, but I was referring to the time after that,” Aziraphale said patiently. “You know. The arena. _Last time._ ”

Crowley cocked his head. Aziraphale wished he could see his eyes, but his glasses had remained firmly in place this whole evening.

“Think you’ve got me confused with someone else there, angel.”

Aziraphale’s heart sank.

“Ah,” he sighed. “Yes. You’re right. My apologies.”

It was understandable, really. Crowley had his own authorities to answer to, and if it was safer for him to pretend the kiss had never happened, Aziraphale was hardly going to compel the demon to put himself in danger.

Aziraphale hoped that, whatever the consequences had been, they hadn’t been too hard on Crowley. He could only imagine how cruel Hell’s management might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include:
> 
> -Face-slapping/manhandling  
> -Choking  
> -Noncon kissing/groping  
> -Coerced sex acts


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a reminder, content warnings are in the end notes of each chapter. Thrill to my increasingly ridiculous attempts to delicately phrase all the terrible things Gabriel does!

“Oh,” said a voice almost as soft as the snowflakes drifting to the forest floor. “It’s you.”

Crowley opened his eyes. The grey light from outside the cave was almost fully obscured by the figure crouching in the entrance, but he could see in the dark well enough.

“It’s me,” he agreed. “You’ll excuse the state of me. I’d have dressed for company if I’d known you were dropping by.”

Actually, between the coverage from his scales and the thick blanket of his hair, Crowley was almost as modestly attired as Aziraphale. The angel was bundled up in layers of leather and furs, but his face was bare. His cheeks were rosy from the cold, and his eyes were the same color as the winter sky. He was not smiling.

“Crowley,” he sighed. “I thought I’d find you here. Are there no other serpent demons in Hell?”

“A few,” Crowley admitted. “But no one else volunteered to come up here this time of year. Not much for the cold, us.”

As he spoke, he uncoiled the lower half of his body and craned his neck out toward the cave’s entrance. His tongue flickered out. The air around the angel still tasted of the warmer climes from which he’d come. Crowley imagined he could taste sunlight and pomegranates and sea salt. The farther the Fertile Crescent retreated in his memory, the more he found himself yearning for it.

Gaul was cold, and dark, and tasted too much of smoke when it tasted like anything at all.

Still, it was a good place for the forces of Hell to gain a foothold, or so he’d been told.

“Are you cold, angel? You can come in, if you like.”

Crowley stretched out on his stomach, rested his chin on his hands and smiled. Aziraphale did not come any closer, but he did ease into a seated position outside. The sword belted at his hip made the process clumsier than it ought to have been.

“Isn’t this a bit…flamboyant, for you?” he asked after a moment’s awkward eye contact.

Laughing wasn’t something Crowley had done much of this century, and this attempt didn’t sound even close to human. “You’re one to talk. How many foot soldiers can afford doeskin gloves with ermine lining?”

Aziraphale looked at his hands and blushed. “I just liked the way they looked.”

“And who could blame you, dear? They’re lovely.”

The smile faded from Aziraphale’s face. He looked back at up at Crowley. “I’m serious, you know. I may not approve of your methods all the time, but I did respect you for leaving your ego out of it.”

“Ego?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. “You know. This clan, they’re, er, worshipping you, aren’t they?”

“Wasn’t my idea.” Crowley shrugged. “I healed one kid’s fever, and all of a sudden they decide to start bringing me gifts. Humans do it with each other all the time. It’s called commerce.”

“Yes, well, I don’t think my superiors would see it that way.” The angel’s glance skyward was so quick, Crowley had to wonder if he knew he was doing it. “Or yours,” he added.

“Isn’t that a shame,” Crowley purred. “You here to smite me, Aziraphale?”

“No.” Aziraphale pressed his lips into a thin line. “No, we’re encouraging humans to do most of the heavy lifting, these days. My mission is strictly observe and report. Specifically, observing the regiment I’m attached to ridding Gaul of heathens, and reporting any hellish agents I encounter in the field.”

“Ah-ha.” Crowley let the coyness in his voice subside, but not vanish. “Spreading the word of the Lord, this regiment? Through heartfelt demonstrations of compassion and charity, I take it?”

Aziraphale grimaced, and glanced briefly at the hilt of his sword.

“No.”

“Got it.” Crowley reached back into the darkness of the cave, felt around until his hand lit on something soft and presented it to Aziraphale. It was a doll, crudely made of cloth scraps, with gobs of burned pitch for eyes and dried grass for hair.

“Little girl gave this to me when her clan first got here,” Crowley explained. “To thank me for healing her brother. Not what you could call fine craftsmanship, not like your gloves, but s’the thought that counts, isn’t it?”

“Crowley.”

“She’s carrying a child of her own, now. Do your holy warriors consider her unborn baby a heathen as well?”

“Please don’t.”

“What, don’t ask questions? Better than you have tried to stop me, angel.”

“I’ve _tried_ ,” Aziraphale cried. “I’ve spoken to the humans of nonviolence, time and time again I’ve reminded them of mercy, but they don’t- they _want_ to hurt each other.”

Crowley sighed. “Yeah, well, there’s your free will. Can’t be helped.” He rippled his scales across the warm stones. He liked this cave. He would miss it. “So why _are_ you here? Giving me a head start? Twenty-four hours to get out of town?”

Again, Aziraphale looked up. A few snowflakes lit upon his brow.

“Strictly observe and report. No miracles,” he said carefully. “I can’t even ensure good weather for tomorrow’s ride.”

Crowley waited.

“I can’t bless the weather. If it were to take a nasty turn…if the winds picked up, if the snow was too high for the horses to run…it might delay us by a day. Maybe two.” He looked back at Crowley, eyes now serene. “If your people were able to conceal their homes, there’s a chance we’d overlook them entirely when we finally made it here.”

The smile that broke across Crowley’s face was not a nice one, and he could see that it unsettled Aziraphale. But the angel didn’t flee, and Crowley wondered for the hundredth time how such a one had stayed under management’s radar for so long.

“Wouldn’t that be the luck of the devil?” he mused.

Aziraphale clambered unsteadily to his feet. He looked around, to reassure himself he had not been followed, then raised one hand in a half-hearted salute and tramped off into the dark woods.

Crowley drew back into the warmth of his cave. It wasn’t a miracle that kept the place hospitable; a hot spring ran beneath, was what had drawn the little clan in the first place. Crowley had only been taking a nap. The last thing he expected was to be woken by a band of humans with a sick child and no one else to pray to.

They had seen his scales, his eyes, his wings, and had chosen the word _god_ instead of _monster_. Did they deserve to be punished, for making such a choice? Crowley didn’t think so.

The women would come by before dusk, to draw water for their cook-pots. They would listen when Crowley told them a storm was coming. Told them they needed to hide.

Outside, a cold wind began to rattle the trees. 

**************

When the snow fell high enough to cover the mouth of the cave, Crowley curled his wings around himself and went back to sleep.

He hoped the humans would be alright, but to take any further steps to make it so would be pushing it too far, he knew. Setting oneself up as a false god, calling down a storm, whispering Heaven’s secrets into mortal ears; all plausibly demonic. Making his cave large enough to shelter the entire clan, or at least give the children somewhere to wait out the worst of the storm, was not.

Eventually drifts of bitter wind stopped blowing into the cave. All was dark, and warm, and silent.

And a voice in the darkness said, “Let there be light.”

Crowley reared up, hissing, eyes stinging as the cave was illuminated. It was as if a lightning bolt had been suspended in time, a blinding white gash edged in amethyst, forking down from the cave’s ceiling to the floor, a few inches taller than the figure who had called it.

“Gabriel,” he said, when he could make out the intruder’s face. “To what do I owe such an unwelcome surprise?”

“Hello, serpent.” Gabriel was dressed like a centurion, or at least he was wearing what centurions wore the last time Crowley had laid eyes on one. Despite the outfit’s insufficiency for the weather and its total lack of accompanying weapons, he seemed very much at ease in Crowley’s cave. He was smiling. “You know, I’m starting to think Aziraphale is succumbing to your wiles after all. He always complains less in his reports when you turn up.”

“That so?” Already considering escape plans, Crowley kept the human half of himself upright and let his tail slowly stretch out. A powerful enough thrash could knock Gabriel over, give him a chance to make a break for it. “Can’t imagine the company he gets at home is all that ssstimulating. Not since your boss kicked out all the interesting people.”

Gabriel’s smile faltered. “Watch what you say, Crowley.”

“My cave, my rules, Gabs.” It was strange; his first reaction hadn’t been to reach for his demonic powers at all. Now that he was trying, he found it like trying to gather mist in his hands. He shoved his increasing alarm at that realization aside and tried to focus on what Gabriel was looking at. Trying to predict what he would do next.

“It’s not yours,” Gabriel snapped. “Nothing on this planet is yours. You have no claim anywhere but Hell, and even there you’re just a squirming little minion.”

There was something moving in Crowley’s blood, behind the fear. Some anticipation. 

“I’ll admit, these living conditions are more appropriate for you,” Gabriel continued. “Living in a hole in the ground like the worm you are. Are you finally starting to accept your place?”

“Might have done, but I’ll be moving on now. I’ll never be able to get your holy stink out of the walls. It’s a shame, it’s about the only nice spot in all of Gaul. I’ll give the Almighty that one, hot springs were a stroke of genius.”

“Don’t,” Gabriel growled, “Talk. About. Her.”

“Why, is She listening for once?” Fear was turning into pure adrenaline, now, the kind that preceded a fight or a shag. It felt good to make Gabriel angry. Why shouldn’t he? It was only fitting for a demon. He looked up at the cave’s ceiling. 

“Hi there, Mum, how’re you these days? Thought you might like to know that these heathens Heaven has it in for are people too. Pregnant women and old people and little kids.”

“Shut up.”

“Not that that’s ever stopped you before, I get that. Just thought I’d mention it.”

“ _Shut up_.” The light around Gabriel was moving, pulses of energy flickering through it. 

“So they think I’m a god. Understandable mistake, really. Who knows, maybe I just take after you.”

“ENOUGH.” Crowley felt the thunder of Gabriel’s voice in his gullet, and then he heard actual thunder, a low rumble that swelled and grew until-

For a few moments, all Crowley could register was pain. Crushing pain on his wings and back and tail, pressing him against the ground.

There was a series of deep cracking sounds, so loud they made Crowley’s ears ring. He felt himself moved, wrenched upright, the pain intensifying on his wings until he couldn’t help but scream. Like laughing, it was a little-used function these days, and like his laugh it did not sound human. It was an enraged, hissing shriek that only a demon who had just learned a new way to feel pain could have made.

Gabriel scooped up a rock large enough to crush Crowley’s skull.

“Enough,” he said again.

Crowley gasped for breath and tried to get his bearings. Part of the cave had collapsed. He was sprawled across a heap of rubble, rocks jabbing into his back and legs. His arms and tail hurt, were likely bruised or worse. He could move them, but he knew better than to try to thrash himself free, because his wings…

His _wings_.

It wasn’t a question of whether they were broken. Crowley could tell they were, had felt the bones snap when the rocks had first fallen. No, he was worried they might be _pulverized_. Every time he breathed he could feel the rocks crushing them a little more. He had the nauseating mental image of pulling himself free to find nothing but sticky black paste where they’d once been.

Whatever the state of them, they were still attached to his back firmly enough that he was only going to free himself if they didn’t come with him.

Judging by the way Gabriel was grinning, that had been exactly what he had planned on.

“I know you learn fast,” he said. “So let’s review. What happens when you blaspheme?”

“I’m going to _fucking_ kill you,” Crowley hissed.

“Wrong.” Gabriel flicked his wrist, and the rocks holding Crowley shifted, making him bite his tongue to keep from screaming again. “Maybe it will help if I explain something to you.”

In the glow of frozen lightning, Gabriel’s eyes were purple embers. “There is nothing more beautiful, more comforting, more fortifying for an angel than contemplating our Creator’s love. She _is_ love, Crowley. Your kind and the humans have forgotten that, but the angels are blessed to remember Her presence, and so no angel can ever know unhappiness.”

A flash of memories, from Lucifer ranting before the Host to Aziraphale pouting over a gone-over bottle of wine paraded through Crowley’s mind, but through the pain he couldn’t bother sorting out what point they were trying to make.

“So,” Gabriel continued. “When _you_ speak of Her- when your hideous serpent’s tongue shapes Her name- you are _defiling_ the most important thing in the Universe. Do you understand?”

Gabriel brandished the rock at that, so Crowley nodded.

“And the reason I chose to hurt your wings was no accident. The fact that you continue to wear those, flaunting your Fallen nature like you’re _proud_ of it-“ Gabriel was nearly spitting with anger now- “It’s sick. It’s _wrong._ The most worthy thing I could do right now is make you tear them off.”

He stepped a few paces closer to Crowley. Tossed the rock from hand to hand.

“Do you want me to make you tear them off?”

There was a tiny part of Crowley that was willing to consider it, for no other reason than that Gabriel expected him to say no, and he didn’t want the sanctimonious prick to be right. 

But Crowley loved his wings. It was harder to keep them groomed than it had been in Heaven, but he still did the best he could, using his snaky spine to twist around and preen the hard-to-reach feathers with his own fingers. He loved to fly, to let them bear him up into the atmosphere until starlight kissed his skin. 

Ten years ago, he had wrapped a sick child up in his wings, and had felt, for a little while, something close to peace.

“No,” Crowley whispered. Then, knowing for some reason that it was the correct thing to say: “Please.”

Gabriel’s eyes softened. He let out a sigh and nodded his head, as if listening to well-loved music.

“Alright, then,” he said. “Tell me what I should do instead.”

For a moment Crowley said nothing. He knew what someone setting up a trap sounded like. Any demon did.

Then another rumble came from deep below their feet, and he panicked. “Anything!” he yelped. “Anything you want, just please, please don’t…”

He hated this, hated that he was begging, but all he could think about was getting his wings free before there was nothing left of them to heal. If he even _could_ heal them on his own. He couldn’t just replace them like his human corporation, they weren’t just meat and blood, they were a part of him and they _hurt_ -

“Let me go,” Crowley whimpered. “I get it, alright, lesson learned. I’m sorry for what I said, I’m sorry, _please_.”

“That’s better,” Gabriel said. “That’s a lot better. You can keep saying things like that, if you want.”

He’d stepped closer to Crowley’s battered form. One hand settled on his hip, right where the skin began to turn to scales. Gabriel’s thumb brushed curiously along the rippled surface.

“This form is…strange,” he said. “Why make yourself look like this?”

Crowley laughed, then resolved not to do it again, not because of the glare he got in response from Gabriel but because of how even that small vibration set his wings to throbbing. “Just felt like changing things up. You never get bored with your human form?”

Gabriel’s hand moved upward to the jut of Crowley’s ribs, rendered even sharper beneath the skin by the way the rocks forced him to twist around. He was half-lying on his side, and there was enough space between his body and the rock for Gabriel’s fingers to make their way to where his left wing met his back. 

“I used to,” he said, idly toying with the trembling feathers. “Not so much these days.”

“Gabriel. Please. Let me go.”

“Yes.” Gabriel didn’t let him go. He started stroking Crowley’s hair instead, what little of it he could reach that wasn’t also trapped beneath the rock. “This. This is pretty. You could be pretty.”

He returned to Crowley’s scales, tracing down from his hip to where his knees would be in his human form. Crowley forced himself to stay still. Squirming away would only put more strain on his wings, and it didn’t matter what he did anyway because-

_-you can’t fight him you can never fight him-_

-because he could sense what Gabriel wanted now, and it was best to just get it over with.

“I’ll do what you want,” Crowley whispered, catching Gabriel’s eyes and holding them. “Just free my wings, and I’ll do it.”

“This is what I want,” Gabriel answered. His fingers scraped the wrong way over Crowley’s scales, making him clench his teeth. “Just this.”

Knuckles brushed Crowley’s cheekbone, grazed against his lips. His chin was grabbed, his face tilted upward and held. Gabriel was staring down at him with the strangest mix of tenderness and disgust on his face, as if Crowley were an orphaned baby bird, thrown from the nest and shattered, dying on the ground.

“You could have been beautiful. You used to be beautiful,” he said hoarsely. “But you chose this.”

He gripped the base of Crowley’s wing and pulled. Feathers splintered, tiny bones ground between the rocks, and Crowley tried and failed to keep a fresh shriek from spilling forth.

Apparently satisfied with this, Gabriel let go of the wing and resumed stroking the skin of Crowley’s back and ribs. His other hand probed gently at the pulse points in Crowley’s neck. It was as if he was examining the way the bones fit together. Like Crowley was a puzzle.

Like he meant to take him apart.

“Please,” Crowley repeated. It seemed to be the only thing he could remember how to say. The pain was crowding out all the other words he knew.

“Yes,” Gabriel said. “Close your eyes.”

Relief bloomed and died in swift succession as Crowley obeyed. Gabriel’s hands withdrew, but the pain in his wings didn’t lessen. There was no sound but the archangel’s heavy breathing.

When Crowley peeked, he wasn’t even surprised by what he saw.

Gabriel had his cock out and in his hand, lazily stroking himself as he looked down at Crowley’s shivering, broken form. He had a smear of blood on his other hand, and Crowley watched as the Archangel raised red fingers to his mouth and slipped his tongue out for a taste.

Their eyes locked. Gabriel’s hazy look of pleasure changed into a snarl.

“I said _close your eyes_ ,” he growled. He shoved Crowley’s head back down against the rocks. Crowley went willingly, shutting his eyes and trying to block out everything. The pain in his wings, the sense of helplessness, and most of all the sound of Gabriel growing closer and closer to his orgasm.

 _Maybe this isn’t happening,_ Crowley thought. _Maybe it’s just an ordinary cave-in and this is a hallucination from being slowly crushed to death._

He doubted it. As cruel as his subconscious could be to him sometimes, it had never come up with anything like this before.

“Good,” Gabriel was chanting softly, “That’s good, that’s-“

His voice faltered. Crowley felt wet heat on his side, sliding over his ribs and down across his back. He hissed in revulsion and kept his eyes shut. He didn’t want to see the satisfied look he knew Gabriel would be wearing. He didn’t want to ever have to see the bastard again if he didn’t have to.

“Oh, look at you,” Gabriel sighed. There was something almost affectionate in his tone, something that made Crowley’s guts twist even worse than the feeling of angel come cooling on his skin. 

He drew his arms up to cover his head, curling in on himself as much as he could with his wings still pinned. He had no reason to believe he would be freed now. Likely these would be his last few moments of existence, and he didn’t want to spend them thinking of Gabriel. 

_Sunlight. I can think about that. Or date wine. The smell of the ocean._

He felt a slight tug at the back of his skull, and after a moment realized it was Gabriel touching his hair. Using it to clean himself off.

“Filthy demon,” he said, the way that Crowley had heard some humans say, “My love.”

_Shooting stars. Remember how much fun that was, setting them in motion?_

He felt sick. He didn’t want to die feeling sick.

_Why doesn’t he just do it just get it over with please just make it quick-_

Crowley opened his eyes.

He was in his cave. There was a storm outside, but in here all was dark and warm and silent. 

He wasn’t sure why he’d woken up, or why his stomach felt unsettled, or why the place smelled faintly of electricity.

His wings were cramping, just a little. He stretched them out, letting the primary feathers graze the cave walls. It felt good. The feathers were a little mussed from how he’d been sleeping, but he could groom them properly when he was ready to fly again.

Not for a little while, though. He was content, here in his cave, and out in the world somewhere was an angel to whom Crowley owed a favor. It wouldn’t do for his reputation to start paying back his debts in a timely fashion. Aziraphale would surely understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings for this chapter:  
> -Naga (half-snake) Crowley  
> -Mentions of genocide  
> -Degradation/body-shaming  
> -Wing torture  
> -Highly inappropriate masturbation


	6. Chapter 6

_Act of faith._

The words tolled in Aziraphale’s head like iron bells.

_Act of faith. That’s what they’re calling it._

The smell of human flesh cooking. People screaming for mercy. The Almighty’s name, shouted in both agony and rapture.

_Cheering. They were cheering._

He was half-jogging, half-running, moving at a pace just fast enough that he couldn’t quite catch his breath. If he couldn’t fill his lungs, he couldn’t start screaming.

He stormed into the church, dismissing the handful of worshippers present with a wave of his hand. He would not hear any reprimands of frivolous miracles, not today. Not until his questions had been answered.

He marched straight up to the altar, placed both his hands upon it and hailed Heaven with all his might. This was not a polite missive. It was a rock hurled through a stained-glass window, irreversible and impossible to ignore.

“ _Was this us?_ ” he shouted. “Is this done by our orders? Someone answer me right now or I’ll- I’ll- just someone answer me!”

The air above the altar shimmered and Gabriel appeared. On an ordinary day, the look of irritation bordering on outright anger he wore would have made Aziraphale more than a little nervous, but today was not ordinary. 

“Greetings, Aziraphale,” he said coolly. “I take it you’ve arrived in Seville?”

“I demand an explanation for this!” Aziraphale tried to project as much authority into his voice as he could, but the result was still a touch more hysterical than he would have preferred. “Did you know this was going on?”

Gabriel scoffed. “Of course we knew. Why do you think we wanted one of our people on the scene?”

“They’re…” Aziraphale stopped a moment to compose himself, leaning his weight against the altar. “They’re burning people alive. Torturing them. They’re saying they’re doing it for Her, Gabriel.”

“Yes, well, that’s humanity for you. They can’t always be trusted to make the best decisions.” Gabriel brushed an invisible speck of dust off his sleeve and sighed. “Is this the only reason you called?” He wasn’t even looking at Aziraphale anymore, was directing his attention to something beyond his subordinate’s range of vision.

“So…this wasn’t Heaven’s plan?” Aziraphale stammered. “We didn’t orchestrate this? She didn’t…doesn’t…endorse it?”

Gabriel’s features darkened as he snapped his gaze back to Aziraphale. “I don’t see how that’s information you need, Principality.”

“I know, I know.” He was dithering now, all his righteous fury abandoning him under Gabriel’s scrutiny. He’d been so sure of himself when he came in here. “I just…was hoping you would tell me. I did everything that was asked of me during the Crusades, and I was told it would all make sense in the end, but I still don’t understand…Gabriel, please-“

“Calm down.” Gabriel still looked annoyed, but there was some degree of pity in his voice now as well. “You’re embarrassing yourself, Aziraphale.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said shakily.

“Now, this is privileged information, and I really shouldn’t be telling it to you, but it’s important to me that you’re able to do your job. If you can’t do your job, that makes _me_ look bad. Is that something you want?”

Aziraphale straightened up. “Of course not. Sir.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page there, at least. So. Just in case not knowing this would make you _truly unable to perform your duties_ , I’ll tell you. Our intelligence suggests the current situation in Spain was conceived and set in motion by one of Hell’s agents. Our side had nothing to do with it.”

“Really?” Aziraphale twisted his hands together. “Oh, that is a relief.”

“Honestly, I’m a little confused why that wasn’t your first guess,” Gabriel commented. “It does seem more like something a demon would do, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said slowly, feeling terribly foolish all of a sudden. “Yes, I suppose it does. Um.”

A question occurred to him then, one he realized just as suddenly that he did not want the answer to. He found himself asking it anyway, because Gabriel was starting to look angry again, and panic loosened his tongue.

“I don’t suppose we know which demon it might have been? If they’re still active in the area, it might be good for me to keep an eye out.”

Gabriel snapped his fingers and a tablet appeared in his hand. He consulted it for a moment, a soft smirk lighting on his face, and Aziraphale knew what he was going to say before he said it.

_Please, let it be anyone else._

“Intelligence believes it’s the work of the demon Crowley. He was spotted in the area recently.”

Aziraphale’s stomach hurt.

“Ah,” he said. “I, er, thank you for telling me. I…I thought he might…might have…”

_I thought he was better than this._

“He’s a slippery one, I’ll give him that,” Gabriel said. “If you see him, do not engage. Too risky. Just report back to us.”

“Yes. Of course.” Aziraphale’s anger was returning, fiercer this time. Anger at his superiors was one thing, tempered by fear as it was. Aziraphale was _not_ afraid of any demon, especially not Crowley. 

“Will that be all, Aziraphale? It’s a busy day up here.”

Aziraphale straightened his back once again, forced the red mist clouding his eyes away. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Gabriel nodded briskly and cut off the connection. Aziraphale stood alone before the altar, taking a moment to allow the consecrated ground to center him, calm him, remind him of his purpose.

Thus reassured, he went off in search of his adversary.

***************

The tavern where he eventually tracked Crowley down was as far from where the _auto-da-fe_ was occurring as a place could be and still be in the city, a fact that Aziraphale was outwardly outraged by and secretly grateful for. If Crowley had caused the carnage that was happening, by all rights he should do those poor souls the dignity of bearing witness to it. But if he was going to selfishly remove himself from the grisly scene, at least that meant Aziraphale could get a break from it himself.

He was mentally wrestling with this concept as he waited outside, trying to establish a moral standing that could hold up to Crowley’s typical cross-examination. He meant to storm in as he had in the church, banishing all prying eyes and demanding an explanation, but before he could work up the needed momentum, the door opened and a familiar figure swaggered out.

Twisting around as he was to shout something over his shoulder in unpolished Spanish, Crowley didn’t see Aziraphale at first. The demon, in his nobleman’s garb, looked very much the picture of austere wealth, from his short hair brushed back from his temples to his finely-tooled leather boots. He looked impressive, and powerful, and he was laughing at something shouted to his departing back. Aziraphale took this picture in, compared it to the horror he’d witnessed today and felt his anger surge again. 

“You!” he shouted, wagging an accusing finger at Crowley as he advanced. “Enjoying yourself, are you? Basking in your achievements?”

“Wossat now?” Crowley swayed a bit on his feet. “Ah! ‘Ziraphale.” His face lit up and he threw an arm around the angel’s shoulders. “Brilliant, just the c’lestial entity I wanted t’see. Come back in here with me a minute, would you? ’S’an argument about sea turtles I was having with the barman you can settle.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” Aziraphale shoved Crowley’s arm off of him with a bit more force than he intended, causing the demon to stumble against the wall. “Honestly, Crowley, I know you have your obligations, as do I, but _this_ is…unspeakable, what you’ve done. I mean really, how could you?”

“Uhhh.” Crowley was braced against the wall now, as if he didn’t trust his legs to hold him up. His glasses hung slightly askew. “You talking about the, er, Inquisi- the auto-, uh, the thing?”

“Yes. The _thing_ ,” Aziraphale said icily. “I’m told it’s your doing. Your superiors must be very proud. Any other demon would have just inspired some run-of-the-mill adultery or tempted a few priests and called it a day, but no, you had to _innovate_. Now they’re torturing each other and claiming it’s God’s will. Deliciously ironic, I’m sure.”

 _I thought you were good, deep down,_ he thought but did not say. To say such things would break too many unspoken rules. _I thought your cleverness and the way you understand the humans made you better, but instead it makes you_ worse, _and my heart is breaking. Every time I see you my heart breaks in a new way._

Crowley appeared to have barely heard his little rant. He was watching Aziraphale’s hands instead, at least with the half of one eye Aziraphale could see. He was still leaning against the wall, shoulders drawn up, almost cowering. 

“Well?” Aziraphale continued. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” He’d been hoping, he realized, for not just a heated discussion but a proper blazing row. It was always easier to cope with Crowley’s existence when Aziraphale was angry with him.

Crowley just shook his head. Closer to him, Aziraphale saw that the demon wasn’t nearly as put-together as he’d looked from far away. The smell of wine was coming off him in cloying waves, and there were darker patches on his black clothes that might have come from spills of the stuff. Beneath his eyes were dark circles, obscured by the glasses but still sharp against his pale skin. 

“C’mere,” Crowley slurred, reaching out and grabbing Aziraphale by the shoulder again. “Lemme tell you something. Secret.”

Aziraphale let himself be pulled close, wrinkling his nose at the fresh assault of alcohol fumes. 

“Wasn’t me,” Crowley whispered in his ear. “Was just the humans. Thought it all up themselves. Isn’t- isn’t that just-“

Crowley’s words disappeared in a fit of wheezing laughter, the demon now leaning his full weight on Aziraphale for support. It was not a sound of merriment by any stretch of the imagination. 

Aziraphale began to suspect there wasn’t anything celebratory about this drinking binge. 

“Oh dear,” he muttered as he realized that the latest situation with Crowley was, once again, more complicated than he’d initially assumed. “Perhaps you should sober up before we continue this conversation?”

“Sober up. Right.” Crowley let go of Aziraphale and immediately careened back into the wall, laying his body flat against it like he meant to climb it. “Um. Can’t.”

Aziraphale looked around nervously. He had, on occasion, seen Crowley get so drunk that miracles were extremely difficult, but never somewhere quite so public. Adversary or not, he wasn’t sure it was in the best interest of anyone to leave a blind-drunk agent of Hell alone in the middle of a busy city. Better to get him off the streets where he couldn’t accidentally harm anyone or cause more trouble.

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, putting an arm around Crowley’s waist, Crowley’s arm over his shoulders. “Let’s get you somewhere to sleep this off, hm? Where are you staying?”

Crowley grimaced and looked up and down the street. “Villa out in the country. Had a horse around here somewhere. Mean bugger, glowy red eyes, can’t miss ‘im.”

Fortunately, no such horse was anywhere in sight. Crowley was in no condition to ride, and Aziraphale doubted a demonic mount would take kindly to his own presence. “Never mind. I’ll find us somewhere.”

Even with Crowley barely cooperating, it didn’t take long to locate an inn. Aziraphale paid for a room and managed to coax Crowley up the stairs with only a small bit of miraculous assistance needed to ensure they’d be left alone. 

“Really, such a foolish thing to do, getting too drunk to protect yourself. I know you’re upset, but whatever were you thinking?”

Aziraphale gently grasped Crowley’s elbow and guided him to the bed, felt the demon stumble and then stop short.

“No,” he said, voice suddenly hushed. “N-no, wait-“

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley, you can hardly walk. Just have a bit of lie-down, you’ll feel better.”

“I don’t- I jus’ wanna sleep…”

“Exactly, some sleep is all you need. Here we are, there’s a good lad.”

They got to the edge of the bed and Aziraphale sort of leaned over and tipped Crowley onto it. Crowley groaned and rolled onto his stomach, pulling a pillow over his head.

“Jus’ wanna sleep,” he muttered again.

“That’s right, get some sleep. You’ll be right as rain in no time.” The room was equipped with a writing desk, or at least Aziraphale believed firmly enough that it must be, and he made himself comfortable in the threadbare chair and summoned a quill and parchment to begin his daily report.

Soon loud, drunken snores began to issue from beneath the pillow. Aziraphale smiled sadly and began writing.

_Have arrived in Seville. Severely aberrant behavior from the locals. Hellish influence suspected. As of this writing-_

He paused. Looked over at Crowley’s huddled form. 

_As of this writing, no demonic agents have been spotted. Will remain vigilant as always._

***************

The world reeled and spun, but the shape of events was familiar. Crowley felt the angel’s presence, and shortly thereafter the pain started.

_He hit the floor and rolled onto his back, kicking out with both legs as he went. His boot-heel connected solidly with Gabriel’s midsection and the angel grunted in surprise, but only hesitated a moment before pouncing, large hands circling Crowley’s hips._

_“You won’t be doing that again,” he said._

_Crowley tried to hiss some retort at that, but was rendered speechless as Gabriel did something invisible to the complicated juncture where hip met thigh. Through the nauseating pain he became aware that he couldn’t move his legs at all anymore, could only sort of twitch helplessly as Gabriel crawled over him until they were face to face._

_“You’re going to hold still,” he breathed. “One way or another.”_

_Crowley tried to struggle, but there was very little he could do to stop Gabriel grabbing hold of his wrists-_

This time the pain took the form of a nail, slowly and mercilessly hammered into his skull.

_-were tied to the bedposts, and his ankles as well. The ropes burned his skin, worse when he strained against them, so he lay still and watched Gabriel circle him, vulture-like._

_“Are you sure this is the best use of your time, Gabs?”_

_He wondered what information he was meant to have, why Heaven had sent Gabriel, of all people, to track him down and truss him up for interrogation. Whoever had fed Heaven that tidbit of false intel must have really had it in for Crowley, not that that narrowed down the list of suspects all that much._

_“No,” Gabriel snapped. “No, this is a complete waste of my time, Crowley._ You _make me waste my time.” He traced a finger over Crowley’s cheekbone, and his expression gentled. “You need to be punished for that.”_

_Crowley was prepared to hear something like that. He wasn’t prepared for his clothes to unravel at the seams and fall like dead leaves to the mattress, leaving him naked and exposed to Gabriel’s cold gaze._

_“Huh. That’s new,” Gabriel said softly._

_It wasn’t hard to track what Gabriel was staring at, although the reason any of this was happening was still beyond Crowley. There wasn’t any room in his mind for the reality of Gabriel looking at him with such lust, or the feeling of those hands on his skin, or especially of two fingers slipping between the folds of his quim with heedless curiosity._

_No way to get his mind around it all, and yet it persisted in being so._

_“Yes,” Gabriel grinned as Crowley’s expression changed from shock to fury. “I think we can have a lot of fun with this.”_

_He raised the hand he wasn’t currently using to violate Crowley and snapped-_

The hammering was echoed by his heartbeat, rattling against his ribs like a caged bird desperately trying to free itself.

_-his eyes open, certain he was being watched, that some unseen presence had let itself into his bedchamber and now was lurking somewhere in the shadows._

_“Get out,” he growled, hoping his sleep-rough voice sounded sepulchral enough to send any would-be burglar screaming into the night. He let his eyes glow a fiery orange just to really drive the point home._

_A soft laugh from the darkness, and then an iron grip on the back of his neck, dragging him to the floor in a tangle of limbs and linens._

_“Did you miss me, whore?” a familiar voice he could not place taunted. “Cause I missed you.”_

_A weight was on Crowley’s back then, making the strength run out of his limbs like water, inexorably pressing him down onto his stomach-_

He felt dizzy, the various liquids stored inside his human body all rolling like a turbulent sea.

_-lurched as he heard the unmistakable sound of Gabriel spitting into his hand. A laugh escaped Crowley then, broken but genuine, because he really had to admit the Lord’s mysterious ways just kept getting more mysterious. Given eternity to guess what was going to happen to him on this day, mountains would have crumbled to dust before Crowley guessed he was going to be buggered dry by the Archangel Gabriel. He made a mental note to ask Aziraphale about the ineffability of this situation if he ever saw him again._

_“Think this is funny, do you?” Gabriel whispered, giving his grip on Crowley’s hair a good hard twist._

_“Well, Gabs, what’s life if you can’t laugh at the little things?” Crowley quipped through gritted teeth._

_“Little things. Right.” Something pressed up against his ass, spit-slick and hot. “This feel like something you can laugh at?”_

_Crowley shuddered, his appreciation for irony suddenly deserting him._

_“What’s that? Nothing to say?”_

_Actually, judging from how pleased Gabriel sounded, this was going to be pretty fucking awful._

_“That’s what I thought.”_

_The pain started and it wasn’t easy to keep still, and impossible to keep quiet, but he-_

He wanted to roll onto his side, to bury his face beneath the blankets and shut out the light for a little longer, but he felt as if his limbs were made of lead. Turning over seemed a monumental effort, lifting his head akin to hanging the moon. Best to just stay where he was and wait it out.

_-managed to get the slightest bit of purchase against the cell wall, ignoring the way his nails splintered on the stone. He held on, letting his arms take the impact instead of his spine as his body was slammed against the wall again and again by Gabriel’s brutal thrusts._

_“Don’t worry.” Gabriel kissed him greedily, swallowing down Crowley’s ragged breaths. “Wherever you go, I’ll find you. I’ll always find you.”_

_It didn’t make any sense, but Crowley could worry about that if he survived this. Whatever this was._

_Beneath the rattling of his shackles, Crowley thought he could hear Gabriel whispering his name as he took him._

The pain went on, but it would end. It always ended, and when it did, Crowley would be fine. He was a demon, and there was no pain in his future worse than what he had already endured.

***************

 _Perhaps hangovers are worse for our kind,_ Aziraphale thought as he watched Crowley twitch and moan. _Or maybe he’s just never had one before._

That would make sense. Aziraphale certainly hadn’t seen fit to burden himself with firsthand knowledge of that particular human experience. He couldn’t imagine why Crowley would feel any different.

It really did look awful. Crowley was crumpled up on the bed in close to the same position in which he’d landed, save for the pillow over his head, which had long been swatted away. This did not look like restful sleep. It looked like hard work, like every breath and shift of limbs pained him. He was actually sweating, the poor thing.

Aziraphale smiled inwardly at that, thinking of how Crowley would hiss and grumble at such a label. He’d chosen to do this to himself, after all. 

All demons had a bit of a self-destructive bent, Aziraphale had been taught. It was intrinsic to them, the remaining guilt from their Judgement causing them to seek out those final moments of God’s presence again and again. It certainly explained some of Crowley’s reckless behavior. It was the dark mirror to the angels’ need to protect and comfort even those who did not deserve it. Aziraphale had been warned many times of that as well.

Crowley may not have caused what was currently happening here in Spain, but he would almost certainly benefit from it. He was of Hell, and his good fortune was Heaven’s loss, always. Aziraphale’s urge to dispel Crowley’s suffering, ease his pain and comfort him, was misplaced, vestigial. A mistake. Like their kiss.

 _Does he even remember we kissed?_ Aziraphale thought as he watched Crowley sleep. _Perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps he’s kissed and touched and tasted so many other things that he’s forgotten all about it._

Aziraphale was an angel. It was in his nature to ease pain. Crowley was a demon. It was in his nature to seek pain out.

_Does it even matter, what he and I do? Look what the humans are coming up with on their own._

Dangerous questions. Dangerous thoughts. Gabriel was going to be cross with him for the scene he made earlier. He’d already gone too far in bringing Crowley here. Best to remove himself from the situation before he could make any more foolish decisions.

Crowley whimpered, clawing weakly at the sheets. Aziraphale briefly considered dispelling his hangover, then thought better of it. The demon’s body, and the consequences of abusing it, were his own. Let him see to them in his own time.

Once again taking up his quill, Aziraphale penned a short note informing Crowley he was sorry about the misunderstanding, that he hoped he would feel better soon, and that he would be stationed in Seville through the week at least, should they care to meet and discuss business. He signed it with a simple ‘A’.

Should Crowley take him up on the offer to meet, they could have a proper discussion about who was responsible for the humans’ latest atrocity. It may wind up a blazing row, but more likely it would end with half-hearted shrugs and wistful looks, and an ache in Aziraphale’s chest that, were he a better angel, he would not be able to feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter:  
> -Passing references to the Spanish Inquisition  
> -Short flashbacks to rape and torture


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas Eve Eve, here's some torture! Content warnings in the end notes.

Gabriel crossed his arms and glared at the globe in front of him, hard enough that it might have burst into flame were there any actual oxygen in Heaven.

“You’re proposing a _retreat_ ,” he said, spitting out the last word like the bad taste it was.

“It’s a strategic reallocation,” Michael corrected him, waving her arm and causing hundreds of gold pinpoints of light on the surface of the globe to change position. “The major cities aren’t off the board, they’re just being reclassified as low priority. The majority of agents we have in those regions can be put to better use here at headquarters.”

“And meanwhile, what happens in those territories? We clear out, and they become the hottest demon vacation spots since Mount Vesuvius?” 

“My orders were to give the humans more opportunities for self-government,” Michael said testily. “This is the strategy I came up with, and it’s the one the Almighty approved. If you have a better one in mind, I’d be glad to tell Her about it.”

Gabriel clenched his jaw and did not say what he was thinking, that if he hadn’t spoken directly to the Almighty in two millennia it was laughable to think that Michael would have. One didn’t just come out and accuse a fellow Archangel of lying, though. Instead, he looked deeper into the globe, at the network of human civilizations that would be exposed to hellish influence when Michael’s strategy was put into action.

“Self-government?” he asked. “They’ve got three-hundred more years before it’s all over? Three-fifty? They haven’t even figured out electricity yet. It’s a waste of everyone’s time.”

“Your comments are noted and appreciated, Messenger,” Michael replied, over-enunciating the syllables on the last word. “I’ll need a report from you at your earliest convenience about which agents you intend to leave in the field. No more than ten percent.”

“Ten percent?” Gabriel looked up, incredulous. “That’s one angel for every, what, two million people?”

Michael nodded, oblivious to how insane this plan was making her sound. “Better make sure they’re good agents that you leave down there. They’re likely to be very busy.”

The report took about ten minutes to actually complete, mostly consisting of Gabriel indiscriminately slashing names off of a list. He waited a few hours before delivering it to Michael, though, just to make her stew a little bit. She always lorded her authority in matters of war over him, made a big deal about her “business lunches” with the Red Horsewoman herself when everyone knew it was just their excuse to get drunk and make stupid jokes about broadswords. He’d get her back eventually, he knew, when it came time to actually appear before the humans. Michael had no people skills, couldn’t appear to any potential prophets without scaring them into an asylum or just making their heads explode. She’d be begging Gabriel for help then, and she’d be sorry for her little power trip.

True, it had been a long time since there had been any prophets. The Department of Messages didn’t have the clout it used to have, but Gabriel had infinite patience. His loyalty would be rewarded when the war was over.

And in the meantime, he had ways of dealing with his frustration.

He presented Michael with the list, and she took her time perusing it, reading each name as if she actually had a clue what any of his agents did on a day-to-day basis. She stopped, and tapped her fingernail on the tablet.

“Aziraphale for London?” she asked. “Are you sure about that?”

Gabriel forced himself to smile, to distract himself from the urge to snatch the list out of her hands. “He knows the territory.”

“I’m sure he does, but he’s not exactly a go-getter, is he? Wouldn’t Jophiel be more appropriate?”

Now he was imagining tearing the list up and throwing it in Michael’s face. Yes, in fact, Jophiel would be more appropriate. They would be vigilant, incorruptible, and would file perfect reports every Sunday. Gabriel would have no reason whatsoever to visit London to check up on such a sterling employee.

Not to mention, Jophiel had never met the demon Crowley. Would probably not even recognize him if he saw him. Certainly wouldn’t mention him in his reports, always keeping track of the wily serpent’s whereabouts.

“Are you requesting I make amendments to the list?” he asked, knowing full well that Michael was likely in a hurry to get marching orders sent down the chain of command. 

Michael allowed herself a brief glare at him, then shook her head. “No. They’re your agents, it’s up to you who you leave in the field. I just hope Aziraphale is up to the task.”

“He will be,” Gabriel promised, already making up his mind to deliver the news to Aziraphale in person. 

“I’ll make sure of it.”

*************

Going to Earth was unpleasant. Over the centuries, the smell and the noise and the chaos had only gotten worse. Gabriel didn’t bother letting the humans see him at all anymore. They were too numerous, and too needy. Manifesting in a crowd of them, he would soon find himself swarmed. They drew in close around him instinctively, desperate to bask a few moments in the divine glow of Gabriel’s grace without being able to name what it was they craved. Lost, stupid things. If Michael wanted to let the demons overrun these pits they chose to live in, so much the better.

And yet, despite the humans’ appalling behavior, the Almighty was wholly concerned with the Earth, and only the Earth. She didn’t speak to her archangels anymore. Gabriel and his co-managers took their orders from the Metatron, or found the knowledge of their next tasks already in their heads. She did not summon them to Her presence, did not concern Herself with the day-to-day management of Heaven, did not answer questions. She watched the doomed little experiment on Earth play out and seemed to care for nothing else.

Gabriel knew it was all in the service of a greater plan, _the_ Great Plan, but there was a bitter taste in the back of his throat these days when he sang the Almighty’s praises with the Host that had never been there before. 

He did not like going to Earth and being confronted with the flawed creatures the Almighty had deemed more worthy of Her attention. When he did have to go, he made sure to take care of as many matters as he could while he was there. It minimized the number of trips he needed to take, and allowed him to be seen in many places by lots of different angels stationed on the surface, and meant there would be no suspicion if he took a longish time to make his way back to headquarters.

In the absence of the bliss of the Creator’s presence, he had found a way to reward himself for his hard work. To remind himself of the holiness of his nature, by seeing just how low a lesser being could be brought.

Aziraphale’s reports didn’t always inform Gabriel where Crowley could be found. The demon had recently spent a decade at sea, by the end of which Gabriel was barely keeping his temper in check. He was almost grateful for how badly the quality of Aziraphale’s work slipped during that time; performance reviews gave Gabriel a much-needed outlet for his growing frustration. When Crowley had returned to London and immediately began disseminating ideas from the so-called Enlightenment occurring in France, Aziraphale’s consequent report was positively giddy in tone. Gabriel had finished up their review in five minutes, told Aziraphale to keep up the good work, tracked down Crowley and nearly broken him in half in his enthusiasm to make up for lost time. 

Now Crowley had kept the same set of rooms for a few years, and Gabriel had grown familiar with them. With him.

It was easiest when Crowley had been drinking. Catch him coming back from the right event, and Gabriel could have him in bed (or up against a wall, or bent over his polished black writing desk) with only a few useless struggles before Crowley just gave in and let it all happen. Quick and painless, or nearly so, both the fun and the cleanup afterward.

But Crowley didn’t reliably drink to excess, and even when he did he sobered himself up on the way home more often than not. So Gabriel had come up with other methods, when he wanted Crowley but didn’t want to bother with a scrap, or the increasingly tiresome banter that came before the scrap. Crowley might amuse himself with his little quips, but Gabriel had heard them all now, and every time one failed to needle him the way it had the first time Crowley got a little bit more shrill and panicked as the conversation lumbered on. It got old after a while.

No, there were other, better ways. Ways that really let them spend some quality time together.

Times like these. Naked in bed, as they’d been for a few hours. Crowley was still gagged with the ribbons he’d been wearing in his hair. He hadn’t tried to make any noise louder than a few soft moans for a while, but it was a good look for him, the black velvet stark against his white teeth and pale skin. Gabriel liked seeing him like this, disheveled and helpless.

He was shivering. Gabriel pulled him closer, tried to let the warmth from his human body transfer to Crowley, but there was only so much he could do in the face of all the blood the demon had lost. Blood that had seeped into the sheets and mattress beneath them, really not comfortable at all to be lying on, but that was part of the thrill of it too. It added an extra sordid layer to the whole thing, a reminder of the difference between them. Smeared with demon blood, clasped against a demon’s body, and through it all he remained the Archangel Gabriel, uncorrupted and exaltedly loved.

He gently stroked the long, thin cuts on Crowley’s chest and arms. The wounds on his body had stopped bleeding when Gabriel told them to, but they would remain until it was time to close them up and be on his way. In the meantime, Crowley would hover just on the edge of exsanguination, too weak to fight, too confused to give Gabriel any lip, sweet and pliant and all his. For as long as Gabriel wanted.

Crowley squirmed in his arms, making Gabriel grow hard again. Nestled up behind him, it was easy for Gabriel to ease himself inside. Almost too easy; between Crowley’s exhausted surrender and Gabriel’s spend from previous rounds, there wasn’t quite enough friction for him to build to another climax. Not without a little help.

“Come on, beautiful,” he sighed, letting his hand drift down to grip Crowley’s Effort. “I know you can get there for me.” He laughed softly and kissed the back of Crowley’s neck. “You’ve done it before.”

He had. Gabriel had learned quite a bit since their first encounter.

Crowley made a sobbing sound in the back of his throat and pawed at Gabriel’s arm, so Gabriel took hold of his wrists with his free hand to keep from being deterred. Crowley remained soft; understandable, Gabriel guessed, considering the limits his human form had been pushed to. Gabriel took pity on him and helped out, using as much of a miracle as he dared to force Crowley’s Effort to respond properly. It didn’t take much, not enough to break Gabriel’s concentration, not with Crowley’s thoughts too adrift to get in the way. 

Finally he had Crowley fully hard, the demon making choked-off noises as if he were trying to keep quiet, trying not to let Gabriel hear. It was enough. The tension in Crowley’s body from the mounting pleasure and the sound of him still, despite everything, trying and failing to resist, let Gabriel fall into the rhythm he needed. He pulled Crowley back against his thrusts and mouthed at the throbbing veins in his neck and told him _that’s it, come on, that’s my good little demon slut-_

He held back until he felt the demon come and then followed him over the edge, biting down hard on his shoulder as they both panted through it. Gabriel knew the humans called this moment bliss, and they were wrong. He had known bliss, and this wasn’t it, but it would do for now.

“Shhh.” Gabriel held Crowley as his breathing slowed, felt his heart beating, faint and fluttery and then a little stronger as he calmed down. “It’s almost over. All of this is almost over.” 

Crowley was crying, just a few stray tears glistening on his cheeks. Gabriel looked at them a moment, thinking of the day when Heaven would rule all of Creation and there would be no need for tears, ever again. He’d explained this a few times to Crowley, but as far as he could tell the demon had never understood.

No one ever really understood him. Only one being, and She wasn’t talking to anyone.

Reluctantly, Gabriel peeled himself out from under the sheets, leaving Crowley to watch him with suspicious eyes as he prepared to leave. 

First he cleaned himself off, using a basin full of water that evaporated as it touched his skin, leaving both himself and the air around him purified. Then came his clothes, carefully examining each piece for traces of blood or come or sweat before putting it back on. Only after he was completely satisfied with his appearance did he turn to Crowley.

The demon hadn’t moved. He tracked Gabriel’s movements, and Gabriel knew if he could speak he would be vowing revenge, threatening Gabriel with Falling, trying to scare him. Talk was all it ever was. 

He concentrated, and the blood that had seeped into the bed began to flow up, liquefying and pouring back in through Crowley’s open wounds. Crowley’s eyes went wide. What hurt coming out would hurt going back in, but doubtless Crowley would prefer it to waking up in a pool of his own blood with no idea what had happened. The wounds sucked the blood up until the bed was spotless and Crowley’s deathly pallor had faded, his body at full strength again. 

There was a brief struggle as Gabriel had to adjust his metaphysical grip, focus on keeping Crowley subdued instead of keeping him alive. That wasn’t the hard part, though. The hard part came last, after the room was put to rights, after Crowley was cleaned up. Gabriel shaped his will into the finest, most delicate of instruments, and plucked the memory out of Crowley’s mind, leaving nothing but a blank, formless sense of peace behind.

It was a complex trick. Very few beings had both the raw power and the heightened senses to master it. Gabriel got a little more skilled at it every time. By the time the war started, there would be no one in the universe who could do it better.

*************

It wasn’t an unusual thing for Crowley to wake up naked. There was nothing more satisfying after a day of swanning around in corsets and petticoats than to snap it all out of existence the moment he was safely inside his rooms. Nor was it strange for him to be a bit disoriented on waking. Eons of awareness and an insider’s knowledge of the astral plane made for vivid dreams, and coming back to the real world could be a bumpy landing. 

Still, something was off. 

He craned his neck to look at the clock on the wall. Just past two in the morning. He tried to remember when he’d gone to bed. He’d come home just after dusk. He’d been in a hurry, meant to finish up a report for downstairs and then go right back out, because this evening he was meeting Aziraphale. Voltaire’s latest was playing, and they were going to go see it together, or at least they’d arranged to both be at the theatre at the same time, and Crowley was very much looking forward to it because he wanted Aziraphale and Voltaire to meet, mostly just to see what would happen, and instead-

At first, Crowley was only angry with himself for having stood the angel up. He’d get an earful the next time they met, and never mind that they hadn’t actually planned to go _together_ , Aziraphale was still expecting him to be there and would make it clear he’d been disappointed. Crowley might be a demon, but that sort of base rudeness was beneath him.

Which was the problem. It was. Crowley wouldn’t have done that. He knew he wouldn’t.

He tried to recall the sequence of events that had ended up with him in bed, and found it extremely hard to think about. He’d come home. He’d hung up his coat. He’d-

It didn’t matter. He was here _now_ , wasn’t he, best to just move on, best to-

There. There it was. Every time he tried to focus on that bit of missing time it slipped away.

Icy fingers probed at Crowley’s heart.

There was no way around it, there were a few hours of time between when he’d come home and now, when he’d decided he wasn’t going to the theatre after all, that he simply couldn’t account for. Like he’d been…switched off.

Because Crowley was not human, it did not occur to him to think such things weren’t possible. All sorts of horrible things were possible when the creatures that humans whispered of at night to frighten their children were simply your coworkers. His first thought was more along the lines of _Who had the power to do such a thing?_ , followed by _Why?_ and shortly after, _How could he stop it?_

Question one had a few possible answers. Satan could have done it easily, of course, and he suspected a few of Hell’s lords and princes were both skilled and strong enough to take over his mind and leave no trace. Not a long list, but a formidable one.

Which led to why they might be doing it, and he liked the answers there even less. If Hell was doing this to him and hadn’t seen fit to tell him about it, it could only mean that whatever he was being… _used_ for was either so far above his pay grade that he couldn’t be permitted to know the details, or so abhorrent they had known from the start that Crowley wouldn’t agree to do it willingly.

And as for _What could he do to stop it?_ , well… If it was Satan, or someone ranked just below Him, the answer was likely to be, “Fuck all.”

He felt ill. He’d never trusted his superiors, exactly. Trust didn’t have a lot of currency in Hell. But he had always been able to predict what they would do, so far. The idea that they were starting to get sneaky was…unsettling. 

Perhaps he should start wearing a watch. Keep track of when these fugues were happening. Patterns could yield all sorts of insights.

He couldn’t think of anything he could do about it, right now. But it might do to start planning for the eventuality that he would, someday, come up with a plan. Find some sort of method of self-defense to keep on hand. Just in case. 

He did, after all, have some friends in high places. Well, one friend, anyway, and that was one more than they knew about. He hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter:  
> \- Noncon  
> \- Blood  
> \- Gabriel's POV


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note on continuity: for the purposes of the plot here, Crowley did not spend the entire time after the Holy Water Fight asleep. I imagine there was a good deal of depressed napping and sulking and he was not in contact with Aziraphale for that time, but was still very active in London and the surrounding areas.

“So, what happens next?”

Aziraphale clutched the satchel full of books a little tighter as Crowley slid into the driver’s seat. It felt as if he were holding the weight of both the past and the future, perched upon his knees. The books were the barrier between the two, the version of himself he had been before Crowley had handed the satchel over, and the besotted wretch he was now.

_I’m in love. He’s a demon, and he’s my best friend, and I’m in love with him._

“Er,” Crowley said. “I turn this key here, and that turns the engine on, and then I’ll drive you home, like I said, and-“

“I know how a car works.” Immediately he regretted the testiness in his voice, and tried to soften it. “I meant, what happens next with all this? The humans, the war?”

He waved a hand to take in the smoldering remains of the church.

“How should I know?” Crowley answered as the Bentley rumbled to life, pretending not to see Aziraphale grip the passenger door handle in apprehension. 

“Your people didn’t tell you? I thought you’d risen quite a bit in their esteem.”

“I have, and that’s why they haven’t told me. They think I started the bloody thing.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale watched the dark, silent streets of London roll by, and tried not to picture each one of the buildings reduced to rubble. He knew better now than to ask if Crowley actually _had_ started the Second World War; he knew that for all his cleverness and innovation the demon had nothing on the humans’ ability to torment each other. Once, Crowley had been better at being a demon than Aziraphale had been at being an angel, but he wasn’t so sure that was true anymore.

“Is it so wise, for you to lie to them like that?” he asked.

Crowley’s mouth twitched into a half smile. “Sure it is. Standard procedure for my lot, angel. You’re nothing if you’re not worth lying to, down there.”

 _Then why do you need holy water to protect yourself from them?_ , Aziraphale thought but did not dare to say. He couldn’t bear another fight with Crowley, not when the entire world seemed to be fighting, not when every night bombs were falling and lives that Aziraphale was meant to brighten were snuffed out. 

They rode the rest of the way to the bookshop in silence. When they arrived Crowley put the car in neutral and waited, the Bentley’s idling engine like the purring of a massive, satisfied cat.

“It’s a bad night to be out,” Aziraphale said rather unnecessarily, considering every night for the past several months had been a bad night to be out. “You could come in for a while. If you wanted.”

It was a step too far, and Aziraphale knew it. Crowley had rescued him, but that didn’t guarantee he had any use for Aziraphale’s company. And if he did…if he had missed Aziraphale as much as Aziraphale had missed him, if he had spent the past decades replaying their last conversation over and over, trying to make it end any other way, if he was at all feeling the same yearning that Aziraphale was…

Then inviting Crowley in was beyond foolish. The best thing that could happen was for the demon to breezily rebuff him and be on his way.

Instead, Crowley nodded and killed the engine. He came around and opened the passenger door for Aziraphale, and followed the angel into the darkness of the shop.

“Best to leave the lights off,” Aziraphale explained as they fumbled in the entrance with their hats and coats. “This building is warded against any bombs falling on it, of course, but the neighborhood isn’t, and I wouldn’t want to put anyone in danger.”

“’S’fine,” Crowley sighed. He took Aziraphale’s coat from him to hang it up, their knuckles brushing for the second time that night and sending the angel’s heartbeat into a gallop. “Got anything to drink around here?”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale answered, relieved to have a task to set himself to. “Make yourself comfortable, the back room has-“

“I remember.” The sound of Crowley’s footsteps were soft as he picked his way among the bookshelves in the dark. Aziraphale summoned the faintest glow of light he could manage and set about finding a bottle and some glasses. When he joined Crowley in the back room the demon was sprawled across the couch like he’d always been there, rubbing at his eyes as if he had a headache.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale passed him a glass, which Crowley accepted only after putting his sunglasses back into place.

“Fine,” he replied. 

Awkward silence settled between them. Inside Aziraphale’s head, the dozens of preambles he had composed during their separation were all making their case to be the one he spoke out loud. _I’m sorry_ and _I missed you_ and _Don’t you ever scare me like that again_ and _You really weren’t being fair, you know._ Contrite and assertive, pleading and aloof, shoving at each other just beneath the catch in his throat.

_Kiss me. Please, kiss me. I can’t be the first to do it again._

The longer the silence stretched on, it was becoming more inevitable that this last would be the victor, but before Aziraphale could clear his throat Crowley beat him to the punch.

“D’you think this is it? This war, I mean. Do you think this is, you know, _the_ It? The end?”

Aziraphale’s delicate sip of wine turned into a hard swallow. “I…can’t say that occurred to me. I don’t think so. One of us would have been told if it was, don’t you think?”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s bad out there.” He looked up, tension written in every line on his face. “Not just here in London. Everywhere. It’s all…really bad, angel.”

“I know.” Aziraphale stared into the depths of his wineglass and tried to think of something reassuring to say. Something about the Great Plan, or free will, or opportunities for redemption when things were at their darkest. He couldn’t think of anything. Outside, the air-raid sirens began to wail, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but connect that dreadful sound with this failure.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” Aziraphale settled on saying, just so that they wouldn’t be waiting for the explosion in silence. 

It arrived just as Crowley opened his mouth to reply, close enough that the impact rattled the windows. His glass, perched on the edge of the table, wobbled and then clattered to the floor.

“Shit!” 

Wine seeped into the carpet. Crowley was already half out of his seat and apologizing, Aziraphale assuring him it was fine, nothing a snap of the fingers couldn’t fix, when a louder, closer explosion rocked the building and lit up the whole inside of the shop with a blinding, purple-white flash.

The sound was so loud that Aziraphale felt it in the pit of his stomach, so loud that despite the protective wards on the shop he really did worry that the ceiling was about to cave in on them. It was enough to snap his concentration on keeping the room illuminated, plunging them into total darkness. He thought he heard a curse and some scuffling, but couldn’t be sure over the ringing in his ears.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale muttered, groping blindly about until he found the arm of his chair. “Hang on, let me just-“

He snapped his fingers and the room lit up again. He looked back over at where Crowley had been, meaning to just miracle the glass whole once more, but Crowley was no longer on the couch. He was on the floor, backed up against one of the shelves, knees drawn up to his chest. His hands were up in front of his face, as if warding off a blow, and Aziraphale watched as a fat worm of blood crept from the palm of his right hand and disappeared beneath his sleeve. 

“Crowley, you’re hurt.” He reached a hand out to help Crowley off the floor.

“Don’t,” Crowley snapped, eyes huge behind his glasses. “Don’t touch me, I don’t want to-“

“Come now, I’m only trying to help you up.”

“I said back off!” Crowley shrank back against the bookshelf and actually bared his teeth a little. 

Aziraphale took a step back and raised his hands, palms out. He slowly sat back down in his chair, never taking his eyes off Crowley. The demon was breathing hard, hands clenched into fists.

 _My darling,_ Aziraphale thought. _Who has done this to you? What’s happened to make you so afraid?_

He wanted to ask. But more than that, he wanted Crowley to answer him truthfully. He wanted to put his arms around the demon’s skinny shoulders and hold him to his chest while Crowley poured out all the injustices Hell had inflicted on him. He wanted to promise that no harm would ever come to him again, that he didn’t need the holy water because he had holy love, Aziraphale loved him and would never let him go.

He could not say such things. And he didn’t think Crowley would tell him the truth anyway. You were nothing to a demon if you weren’t worth lying to.

“Would you mind if I fixed the glass?” Aziraphale asked after a few moments, during which Crowley slowly lowered his hands to his sides. 

Crowley shook his head, as if waking from a trance. “No. No, angel, go ahead.”

He watched as Aziraphale reassembled the broken glass, one shard of which had a crimson edge, and banished the spreading stain from the carpet. 

“I can see to that cut,” Aziraphale said gently. “But I have a human first-aid kit around here somewhere as well, if you’d prefer.”

Crowley looked at the blood running down his arm with a deep, puzzled frown. Then he snapped the fingers on his uninjured hand and the cut vanished.

“Ssso s-sorry,” he said, voice faint at first but growing stronger. “I…I really have no idea what that was about.”

Aziraphale doubted that very much, but what could he say? They were both entitled to their own secrets.

“Would you like me to pour you a fresh one?” he asked.

“No. I mean, yeah, sure.” Crowley tried a smile on, but it didn’t stick. “I don’t know. I don’t know, I-“ He suddenly looked at his watch, and appeared to relax a little bit. “Yeah. Another sounds good.”

Aziraphale poured a fresh glass, and when Crowley didn’t get up to receive it, rose from his chair and padded over to Crowley’s spot on the floor. He knelt down next to him and offered the glass.

When Crowley reached out to take it, his hand was shaking so hard that a few drops sloshed out onto Aziraphale’s wrist.

“Sorry!” Crowley jerked his hand back, burrowing his fingers into his hair and leaving Aziraphale holding the glass. “Sorry, angel, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

“No apologies needed, dear boy.” Aziraphale carefully set the glass down on the floor and sat down next to Crowley, side by side with their backs against the shelf. “We’re all a little jumpy these days, I expect.”

They were so close now, their shoulders a scant few inches apart. Aziraphale could have leaned over and rested his head against Crowley’s arm, could move his hand just slightly and twine their fingers together. 

He wouldn’t. Crowley had said _Don’t touch me_ and that meant Aziraphale wasn’t going to touch, not unless Crowley asked him.

_Ask me. Ask me. Let me make it better, please._

To distract himself, he began talking, trying to think of interesting things over the past few years that Crowley might have missed. Gradually the demon relaxed, stretching his legs out and sipping at his wine while Aziraphale babbled about nothing in particular. He ended up talking about the last film he’d seen, a strange American cartoon called _Fantasia._ Crowley had some very strong opinions about the chap who had produced the picture, and soon was on his feet and waving his glass around as he made this point or that. Aziraphale drifted back to his chair and their conversation fell into its usual peaks and valleys as if no time at all had passed since the last one. He felt some desiccated part of himself being nourished for the first time in decades. 

_I cannot bear to lose him again,_ Aziraphale thought. In its wake came a soul-deep ache, because that was the eventuality, was it not? The war would come, Heaven would triumph, and the demons…

He wasn’t sure what was meant to happen to the demons, after that. It wasn’t something angels were supposed to ask. But he doubted it was anything that would leave room for wine and conversation and walks in the park afterward.

One bottle became two, the conversation leapt from topic to topic at disorienting speed, and soon the windows were turning yellow-gray with predawn light. At last it was Crowley who suggested he ought to be on his way, snapping himself sober and donning his coat and hat with a tired but happy smile on his face. 

Aziraphale walked him to the door, intent on bidding the demon goodbye and letting this be the last time. It was simply too much of a risk, for Aziraphale to be so close to something he wanted so badly and couldn’t have.

“I’ve, um, an assignment coming up in Paris at the end of the month. Resistance business. Rather touch and go,” he blurted. “I was thinking we might…pool our resources?”

Crowley’s face practically lit up, and to Aziraphale it was like a hard punch to the chest.

“Sure,” he said. “St. James on Monday to talk details? Four o’clock?” 

“Perfect,” Aziraphale answered, with no idea if he was meant to be engaged at that time. If he was, he would just have to rearrange his schedule. “I’ll see you then.”

He watched the Bentley pull away and felt the pain beneath his heart settle into a quiet sort of resolve. He and Crowley could not be in love. They couldn’t really even be friends. This thing they had would not last, and would likely end in pain for both of them.

He would just have to remind himself that it was pain they both deserved. Crowley because he was a demon, and Aziraphale because he was a fool.

It was still much too early for any would-be customers. Aziraphale fixed his morning cup of tea and settled in at his desk to complete some celestial paperwork. Explaining the whole church fiasco in a way that satisfied management was going to be tricky. He quickly lost himself in the fuzzy, not-unpleasant haze of finding the exact phrasing he could use to prove his actions had been warranted, pragmatic and unassisted by any surreptitious Arrangement. He had gotten very good at it over the years.

His concentration was eventually broken by a loud, abrupt knocking on the door. Irritated, he bustled across the shop, still mostly in his own head, trying to preserve the sentence he had been working on. He swung the door open with a sharp rebuke on his lips for whomever would be knocking at this hour.

Gabriel smiled down at him, and the sharp rebuke died mid-word with a strangled ‘ah’ sound.

“Good morning, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. “You and I need to talk.”

*************

 _St. James. Monday. Four o’clock._ The words sang as sweet as violins in Crowley’s mind as he guided the Bentley through London’s waking streets.

Things weren’t perfect. They likely never would be. But Aziraphale wanted to see him again. 

He had come so close to telling Aziraphale about the missing time, the reason for wanting the holy water. Had the angel pressed him about the cause for his strange little outburst back there, he would have done it.

He couldn’t make himself do it on his own, though. He didn’t want another fight, and he was sure Aziraphale would be horrified, and would ask a whole mess of questions that Crowley really didn’t want to think about, and insist that Crowley do something, despite that fact that there was nothing either of them could do. Not yet. 

He would just have to get hold of some holy water without Aziraphale’s help. Tonight had settled it. He was certain that whatever Hell was doing behind his back was connected to the dizzying panic he had felt at the sudden darkness and the smell of his own blood, and he wanted no part of it. Once he had his secret weapon, he could…

Could what? March down to Head Offices and say “Please stop mind-controlling me, or this is going right into the punchbowl at the next Infernal Singles Mixer”? 

He didn’t know. He just needed to complete this task, because otherwise he would have to admit that he was completely helpless to stop what was happening, and he wasn’t ready to do that yet.

He checked his watch. Ten minutes since he’d left the bookshop, where he’d been all night. No missing time. 

There’d been no pattern, no way of telling when it would happen, no way to protect himself when he was asleep. Sometimes he woke up in a sweat, the remains of nightmares clinging to his mind like filthy gauze, and he would wonder if they’d been at him again, moving his body like a puppet while he dreamed. The sensible thing would have been to stop sleeping. He’d tried a few times, but exhaustion always caught up with him eventually. As unpleasant as it was to wake up sensing he’d been used again, it would be much worse to face the consequences for nodding off in the middle of a meeting downstairs. So he slept when he dared, and did his best not to remember his dreams, and waited for a brilliant plan to pop into his head.

He didn’t think that was going to happen today.

When he reached his flat, he parked the Bentley and checked his watch as he got out. Dawn light was coming between the buildings in milky-gold waves. He was going to go upstairs, have some coffee, do some professional-level scheming. It was just past six.

A hand fell on the back of his neck and slammed his head against the car. 

He saw a flash of white behind his eyes and heard an electric _snap_ deep inside his brain. He tasted metal. His glasses shattered, a shard grazing his left eye. Wet heat dripped down his cheek.

“Morning, sunshine,” his attacker growled as he spun Crowley around to face him. 

Through his broken lenses, Crowley looked into the insane purple eyes of the Archangel Gabriel and thought _Oh, we’re fucked._

Through his muddled thoughts he realized that he and Aziraphale were _we_ again in his mind. That was nice. He could appreciate that for the thirty seconds or so remaining in his existence.

Before he could stop himself, he reflexively twitched his arm up to push Gabriel away. Gabriel caught it and squeezed. Crowley’s watch and a few bones in his wrist splintered with a dry, brittle sound.

“Every time you move,” he said, “I’ll break something else.”

Panic clawed at Crowley’s throat. Gabriel’s proximity to him, his eyes, the smell of electricity and anger, all of it coalesced into some overwhelming force that made Crowley want to shrink in on himself, present the smallest target possible and wait for it all to be over. 

“I know I shouldn’t be mad at you,” Gabriel said, which came as enough of a surprise to leave Crowley bereft of any response. “The scheming. The whoring. I know it’s what you do. You can’t help it.”

Gabriel slapped him, snapping his head against the side of the car. The remains of his glasses fell to the pavement.

“But when you’re this _fucking_ stupid about it, it’s hard not to get a little frustrated.” 

“What-“ Crowley began, and was cut off by another slap. His mouth filled with the taste of blood.

“Shut up! Just _shut up_. I am so _sick_ of your questions, Crowley.”

That touched a nerve. Crowley spat red onto the ground at Gabriel’s feet, but said nothing.

Gabriel brushed a lock of hair off Crowley’s forehead with his thumb. Crowley could feel him shaking just a little bit.

“Every time. Every time I visit you it’s ‘What are you doing?’ and ‘Who put you up to this?’ and ‘Gee, Gabs, can’t we work something out?’” This last was spoken in a dreadful imitation of Crowley’s voice that would have been funny if Gabriel’s touch weren’t making him want to vomit. “I wish I could just leave you with the useful stuff. This would be so much easier if I could just give you the _right_ thoughts.”

Crowley thought he had been panicking before. It turned out that had been mild agitation at best, compared to what he was feeling now.

 _It’s not Hell,_ he thought frantically. _It’s Gabriel. It’s him who’s been in my head, oh bloody Heaven, how did I get it so wrong?_

_Remember. I have to remember this. Gabriel. Gabriel. REMEMBER._

“You can’t be so obvious chasing after Aziraphale. If one of the other archangels catches you, they’ll destroy you. If I could just make you understand…” Gabriel’s hand traced over Crowley’s cheekbone, skittering over his swelling left eye and split lip. “Damn, you look good like this.”

As much as the compliment made Crowley’s skin crawl, hearing Gabriel say Aziraphale’s name was worse.

“Look,” he said shakily. “Consider me good and scared off, yeah? You want me to stay away from your man Aziraphale, I will. For my car’s sake, if not for me,” he added. His head was throbbing. He hoped that Gabriel hadn’t managed to dent the Bentley’s roof with his skull.

“I wish I could believe that,” Gabriel sighed. “But you’ll make the same mistake again and again. It’s in your nature.”

He pulled Crowley into a kiss, gripping the hair at the back of his neck and sucking the blood off his bottom lip. Crowley’s instincts screamed for him to push the archangel away, but he resisted. He needed to keep Gabriel here, come up with some sort of plan before he messed with Crowley’s mind again.

With a harsh, needy sound, Gabriel broke the kiss and shoved Crowley back against the car. “Not now,” he muttered, sounding like he was talking to himself. “I have to deal with Aziraphale first.”

“No,” Crowley whispered. He flexed his hands along the muscles of Gabriel’s sides. The angel was damn near quivering, desire coming off of him in heady waves. Crowley risked shifting his body a bit until their hips ground together. He felt the press of Gabriel’s Effort through his clothes and forced down another surge of revulsion.

“You’re not mad at Aziraphale, you’re mad at me, right?” Laying on his tempter voice as thick as he dared, he let his lips drift closer to Gabriel’s ear. “I’m the one who keeps screwing up. Having to learn the same lesson over and over.”

 _Over and over._ The words twisted in Crowley’s brain and trickled down his spine. How many times had this happened, how much had Gabriel taken from him? The archangel was breathing on his neck like he knew the _exact_ spot that would make Crowley shiver. He couldn’t do this, he was going to be sick-

No. He could pitch as big a fit as he wanted later. This was too important.

“Come on,” he said. “You didn’t come all this way just to give me a slap on the wrist, did you? Come on up to my flat. Get me somewhere private and really show me who’s boss.”

There would be something he could use in his flat. Some way to write a note to himself, to leave behind some kind of sign. 

Gabriel groaned, fingers digging hard into Crowley’s skin. 

“I will,” he said. “I promise. I’m not done with you, gorgeous.”

He placed a soft, horribly intimate kiss on the corner of Crowley’s mouth, then pushed away.

“But I’ve got work to do first.”

“No,” Crowley pleaded, his fragile hopes shattering as Gabriel raised his hand to snap his fingers. “No, no, _wait_ -“

He checked his watch. It was just past six. It was going to be a beautiful morning.

The world might be at war, and Hell might be out to get him, but Crowley couldn’t feel too bad today. He had a date on Monday with his angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings for this chapter:  
> \- Brief mentions of war/bombings  
> \- Typical Gabriel violence/creepiness, but no noncon beyond kissing.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting this very dialogue-heavy chapter the way I wanted it finally wiped out my buffer of pre-written chapters, so it's possible updates will be a bit less regular from this point on. I hope not, though.

Aziraphale tried not to panic as he stepped aside to let Gabriel in. He had been expecting this, on and off over the centuries. He had always managed to convince himself that next time would be the time that paid for all, and as long as he took steps to ensure that next time didn’t come, he would be spared any recompense. 

He was glad at least that Crowley had already gone. He hated to think about what Gabriel might have done if he’d caught them together.

The archangel was dressed in a dove-grey suit with white pinstripes and a matching fedora with a lilac band. With the golden light of dawn streaming in the door behind him, he looked very much in keeping with his station. Anyone but Aziraphale would have found his image magnetic, even comforting, although they might have been given pause by the pasted-on quality of his smile. It was the type of smile someone wore not to express happiness, but to hide something else.

Gabriel closed the shop door behind him and looked around.

“Are there any humans here right now?”

“No,” Aziraphale answered, thinking they were lucky there weren’t any, considering how loudly Gabriel had asked that question. “I won’t be opening for a few hours yet. Just getting some early work done. Er, may I offer you some tea-“

“We need to discuss your methods,” Gabriel interrupted. As soon as Aziraphale confirmed they were alone, the smile had dropped off his face.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, stomach sinking. 

“Last night you deployed a Level Eight miracle without filing prior intent or obtaining permission from myself or another supervisor.”

“Yes, I’m sorry about that, I was-“

Gabriel cut him off with a raised hand and continued. “I waited all night for you to contact me to explain just what happened, but no one in Heaven heard from you. So I went to visit the site of the miracle, and I found a destroyed church just _reeking_ of evil intent.”

“I- I can see how that would-“

“By then I was actually pretty worried about you. I mean, the church looked like a bomb fell on it, sure, but a fight to the death between a Principality and a demon could also result in that much damage. It wasn’t unreasonable at that point to think you might have come to serious harm.”

“Oh.” There was a high-pitched ringing sound in Aziraphale’s head, as if someone had struck a tuning fork. “I don’t think-“

“You don’t have to think, Aziraphale. Because I _know._ There were dead humans at the scene. No one from Hell had arrived to pick them up yet, so I was able to question them. And would you believe, they told me you left with a man dressed in black, driving a fancy car. Someone who seemed very _uncomfortable_ , in the church.”

Countless times Aziraphale had worried about this exact conversation. He always made sure to have a plethora of plausible excuses to fall back on, but now he could not think of a single one of them. Maybe if Gabriel wasn’t standing so close. The smell of lavender was making Aziraphale dizzy.

“I know what it looks like,” he managed. “But I assure you, it’s all…all above board, all in the service of the greater good. I would never-“

“I believe you,” Gabriel said.

“You…do?” Startled, Aziraphale looked up into Gabriel’s eyes. He could not say he was comforted by what he saw, but the wrath he had been expecting was not present.

Gabriel sighed and laid his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. It was meant as a friendly gesture, but Aziraphale couldn’t help but flinch at the sudden, warm weight of it. 

“Look,” he said. “I know that in our line of work, sometimes it’s necessary to have…unsavory connections. Sometimes the only way to get reliable information about an enemy is from the source. I get that.”

“Um.” Aziraphale looked from Gabriel’s face to his own gently grappling hands, then back. “I don’t…er, that is to say, I thought you-“

“Thought I wasn’t paying attention?” A warm, almost paternal look crept across Gabriel’s face. “Come on, you’re one of my most experienced agents. Of course I’m keeping a close eye on you.”

Aziraphale had lost his ability to do anything more useful than stammer. Gabriel considered him an asset? Gabriel had been looking out for him? It was the most flattering conversation with the archangel he had ever had.

“You need to make use of backchannels once in a while-” Gabriel punctuated the word _backchannels_ with a wink, “-I completely understand. But you’ve _got_ to be more careful about it, Aziraphale. You get your information and you get out. You don’t invite them in for tea and cookies afterward.”

“We…” Quickly losing the thread of the conversation, Aziraphale grasped for something he could be certain of. “We call them biscuits here.”

Gabriel’s smile faltered. “Have you even been listening to me?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale shook his head to clear it. “I’m sorry. I’m just a bit confused. Are you saying I _should_ keep in contact with Cro- with the demon?”

“I’m saying that there’s ways to do this properly. Ways that don’t involve _putting yourself in terrible danger by inviting them into your home._ ” Gabriel’s grip on Aziraphale’s shoulder tightened. “Discretion, Aziraphale. Restraint. Just the _tiniest bit_ of proactive thinking. That’s all I’m asking of you. That’s not a lot, is it?”

“No,” Aziraphale whispered, the conversation having veered back into familiar territory. “No, it’s not a lot. I’m sorry.”

With a heavy exhale, Gabriel let go of Aziraphale’s shoulder. He took a seat on one of the bookshop’s overstuffed chairs and invited Aziraphale to do the same. When they were both seated, he leaned forward, close enough to touch Aziraphale once more. He didn’t touch, though, just peered at him with avid eyes.

“Be honest,” he said quietly. “Has the demon ever tried to…take advantage of you?”

Aziraphale knew what _take advantage_ meant when humans said it, but he wasn’t so sure that Gabriel did, and had no desire to tip his hand in that regard. “Well, I doubt he would be speaking with me if he didn’t perceive he was, ah, benefiting in some way. He is still a demon, after all.”

Gabriel nodded, impatient. “Of course. But that’s not what I mean. Has he ever tried to…” He lowered his voice. “Touch you? Or to get you to touch him?”

By his tone, it was clear that Gabriel was not referring to anything so innocently social as a handshake. 

“No,” Aziraphale answered. His two fingers that had brushed against Crowley’s when he took the satchel from him were tingling. “Nothing like that.”

“Are you sure?” Gabriel pressed. “They’re not all aggressive about it, you know. He could make it seem like he’s just trying to be friendly. Or that it’s something you need to do to blend in with the humans better.”

“Positive.” Aziraphale’s mouth had gone dry, but he did not dare try to remedy that with Gabriel watching him so closely.

“Demons, especially the ones who’ve been up here a while, can be very tricky,” Gabriel continued. “They’ll try to use your corporation’s urges against you.” He looked meaningfully at Aziraphale’s body. “Do you wear a human Effort?”

Aziraphale knew his cheeks were turning crimson, but was unable to stop it. He felt as if Gabriel were trying to see _through_ his clothes now, and had to fight the urge to bring his hands up to cover himself. “Not…not presently. That is to say, not always, only when it might be more, er, conspicuous not to have one. Which isn’t now, of course, never when I don’t need to-“

“But you’ve had one before.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale admitted, dreading where this line of questioning was going.

“Has the demon ever asked you to show it to him? Or offered to, what’s the word, massage it for you?”

“No!” It was extremely fortunate that Aziraphale wasn’t equipped with anything at the moment, because that mental image was…distracting. 

“Has he ever asked you to touch his? Maybe he told you it was hurting him, and that he needed you to heal it?”

“Of course not.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure which implication offended him more; that Crowley would be so transparently manipulative, or that he would be so naive as to fall for it. “Gabriel, I really think you’ve misunderstood-“

“No, _you’ve_ misunderstood,” Gabriel snapped. “The fact that you’re getting so flustered talking about this with _me_ just goes to show you have no idea what you’re dealing with. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. _This is what they do._ They’ll trick you into thinking it was _your_ idea. They’ll figure out what you want, and then try to become that thing.”

“I have no wish whatsoever to debase myself, I assure you.”

“Of course you don’t,” Gabriel agreed. “You’re an angel. But angels have functions, Aziraphale, same as anything. One of those functions is to punish evil. Has your contact ever encouraged you to fight him?”

“No. I don’t think he’s much of a fighter.”

That earned a small, appreciative laugh from Gabriel, but no accompanying smile. “He doesn’t need to be. He knows your instinct is to hurt him, and he’ll try to nudge you into doing it in inappropriate ways. _Human_ ways. It’s all the same to _them_. As long as they’re corrupting you, they’re happy.”

The image of Crowley on his knees in an arena, blade aimed toward his throat, sprang into Aziraphale’s mind then and pulsed malevolently.

But that had been Crowley tempting humans, not Aziraphale. He hadn’t even known Aziraphale was there.

“Or he could exploit your need to protect,” Gabriel continued. He put his hand on Aziraphale’s knee. “I know you’ve struggled with that one. That’s forgivable. But demons can sense it. Has he ever tried to act like the victim in front of you? Like he needs you to save him?”

 _He saves me,_ Aziraphale thought helplessly. But that was just a part of the Arrangement, or a gesture of friendship. It wasn’t _courtship_ , not as something Crowley was doing intentionally. Even if the end result had been Aziraphale falling in love with the demon.

But he wasn’t going to _do_ anything about it. 

_I would have if he had asked me last night,_ his mind piped up helpfully. _When we were drinking together, if he’d kissed me…or after, when he was so scared, if he’d asked me to hold him, to touch him, to make him forget…_

He felt, very abruptly, as if he’d been dropped into a deep black pool of very cold water.

Gabriel squeezed his knee and let out a knowing sigh. 

“See what I mean? They’re tricky.”

“I…” The words were stuck in Aziraphale’s throat. He coughed to dislodge them. “I suppose I do. See what you mean, that is.”

He risked a look up into Gabriel’s eyes, and was surprised to find what looked like real compassion there. 

“Hey,” the archangel said gently. “You haven’t Fallen, right? That means whatever’s happened, it’s nothing that can’t be forgiven. Not yet.”

“Nothing’s happened,” Aziraphale pleaded. “I swear, Gabriel, nothing-“

Gabriel held up a hand to silence him. “I don’t need to hear it. Consider it forgotten, whatever’s got you so upset. This discussion is to prevent future mistakes, Aziraphale, not to punish you for past ones.”

“I…yes. I understand. Prevent. I- I’m sorry.” 

He tried to swallow the shame that was thick in his throat. He almost wished for punishment, for the sense of righteousness and cleansing that would follow in its wake. He couldn’t ask for that, though. Wouldn’t that make him no better than a demon, to ask for punishment to gratify himself?

“Don’t be sorry. Just be better.” With a final pat to his knee, Gabriel rose from his chair. There was an immediate release of tension in the room as he stepped out of the range of physical contact.

Aziraphale stared down at his hands. His fingers were still tingling. He was thinking of the fear he had seen in Crowley’s eyes last night. He could not make himself believe that it was all for show, that Crowley was merely manipulating him into sin. 

Was it possible, though, that Crowley wasn’t aware of what he was doing? That he was only behaving according to his nature? He’d fallen for a reason. He wasn’t good, couldn’t be good, even if he might have thought he was trying to be.

“Aziraphale? You still with me?”

“Yes,” he said hollowly. He looked up and forced a smile. “Thank you for correcting me. I promise to do better in the future.”

“Good.” Gabriel returned the smile with a good deal more warmth, and laid his palm against Aziraphale’s cheek. “Keep up the good work, Principality.”

He vanished with a faint crackle of static.

Aziraphale began to count in his head. Only when he had reached five-hundred and was certain Gabriel was not coming back did he let his head collapse into his hands. He stayed like that, shaking, for a long time.

The shop was closed for the next two days.

*************

Four o’clock on Monday found Crowley waiting by the duck pond, fidgeting more and more as first ten minutes passed, then twenty, then twenty-five.

He wished he could make himself stop looking at his bloody watch. 

Forty-three minutes after their agreed-upon time, he finally spotted Aziraphale scurrying toward him. As he got closer Crowley saw that the angel did not look well. His normally healthy pallor was ashen, and there was a pinched, dried-out look to his face that Crowley had seen more than once on people who had found themselves locked in dungeons with very little food.

“Alright there, angel?” he asked, expecting a flurry of apologies for being late. But Aziraphale only nodded and sort of drifted to a stop next to him, looking nervously skyward as he did.

“Best to make it quick,” he said by way of greeting. “I’ve business at the shop I must hurry back to.”

“Right,” Crowley said, hoping that if he acted nonchalant Aziraphale might take the hint and relax. “What’s your situation in Paris, then?”

They discussed their respective strategies and operatives for fifteen minutes, during which Aziraphale glanced around and shifted from foot to foot and acted, in general, like he might bolt off screaming in a random direction if Crowley so much as looked at him sideways. The Resistance business wasn’t nearly as complicated as Aziraphale had made it sound; Crowley suspected that he had invoked the Arrangement only for a chance for the two of them to meet again. Which is why it was so strange that now Aziraphale seemed like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Would you rather go somewhere a little less, er, exposed?” Crowley asked as soon as Aziraphale paused to take a breath. “There’s a place around the corner that does the best dolma I’ve had since the B.C. years, but you have to order in Greek to get the good stuff. What do you say?”

Aziraphale’s face spasmed. He looked as if he might cry, which Crowley thought was hardly a proportionate response to a restaurant suggestion he didn’t care for. 

“I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just…I’m very busy. I’ll get in touch after Paris, to let you know how it all goes. But I can’t before then. Very busy.”

“Alright,” Crowley said, trying not to sound defensive. He was very conscious of the last conversation they had had on this spot, and was determined to avoid a repeat. “I’ll let you get back to it, angel. You know where to find me, yeah?”

“Mayfair, is it?” Aziraphale was already angling his body away, nearly looking over his shoulder to talk to him. “Not that I ought to…well, best we meet in public, yes?”

“Sure,” Crowley confirmed. “I just meant if you wanted to talk. Here.” He reached into his pocket and produced a paper card, his address and phone number printed neatly upon it. He had several such cards on his person, and until a second ago they had all bore the name “Anthony J. Crowley”. They also listed any occupation that the receiver might find useful in the moment, and a phone number that may or may not have actually rung Crowley’s flat depending on the mood he was in.

The card he handed Aziraphale only had a phone number, one that would connect correctly every time.

Aziraphale took it as if afraid it might burn his fingers, then tucked it into his breast pocket. He offered a weak smile and then hurried away, leaving Crowley alone in the gathering dusk.

*************

Leaving Heaven forever was better this time, although not as satisfying as Crowley had hoped it would be.

He’d been expecting to feel unfettered triumph on the journey home. Maybe a touch of malicious glee, if Gabriel and Co. had made sufficient enough prats of themselves, which they most certainly had. And of course, giddy anticipation at what would follow. He had every intention, once he had returned to his own body, of sweeping Aziraphale off his feet tonight.

Instead, he felt jittery and claustrophobic. It was all Gabriel’s fault, of course. He’d hastily thrown a mask of contempt and impatience over his shock, and now was following no fewer than two steps behind Crowley as they made their way to the lifts back to Earth. Not the main entrance, naturally. They would have to decide what party line they were going to give the working-class angels before anybody saw Aziraphale leaving Heaven unscathed.

Discomfort turned to outright alarm when Gabriel got into the lift with him. Every one of Crowley’s borrowed muscles tensed; it was an extreme act of willpower to continue wearing the cool, faintly amused expression from his trial and to stand next to Gabriel as if one of them had not just tried to kill the other.

He resolved to stay quiet as long as he could. There was a chance that once they were alone Gabriel would reveal some information, some hint as to what he’d done that had scarred Aziraphale so badly. It was less revenge Crowley had in mind than a keen interest in knowing the details of Gabriel’s crimes so that he could immediately get to work on finding out what the exact opposite of those actions were, and doing them for his angel one after the other.

Almost as soon as the doors closed, Gabriel began speaking. His words were rushed, as if he’d been holding them back for their entire journey through the hallways.

“Someday,” he said, “you’re going to realize how much I was looking out for you. And you’re going to be sorry that I’m not anymore.”

Crowley tried on Aziraphale’s most haughty little smirk, and found he liked the fit of it.

“I rather doubt that,” he said.

From the corner of his eye, Crowley saw Gabriel clench and unclench his jaw.

“Remember that talk we had about Crowley? About the methods that demons like him use?”

There was a brief tug-of-war between Crowley’s impulses at that. On one hand, it was a bad idea to get involved in a discussion that might require him to recall specific details. On the other hand, he was wild to hear what rumors Heaven had been spreading about him. _There’s only one thing worse than being talked about…_ Poor old Oscar had really hit the nail on the head with that one.

In the end, consideration for their safety won out, although just barely.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to more specific, ah, Gabriel. Your lectures did all tend to blend together.” He bit down hard on _Gabs_ before it could escape, certain that Aziraphale would have never dared to be so informal, even with an enemy.

Gabriel laughed. “You said you didn’t want to debase yourself.” 

That did sound like something Aziraphale would say, at least the phrasing did, although Crowley would have appreciated a little more context. He waited, confident that Gabriel wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut before the ride ended.

“You’re on your own now,” Gabriel continued. “No Heaven to turn to when things go wrong. No one in the whole universe to watch your back except your little demon friend. You think you’ll be able to keep him interested in you without _debasing yourself?_ Good luck.”

Now, snapping back with _Oh, fuck you,_ would definitely be out of character, Crowley was almost positive. As would offering to debase Gabriel’s face right off his skull. He tried to adopt the tone Aziraphale used with stubborn customers but sensed he was still coming off too agitated when he replied:

“I think that’s quite enough on that subject.”

A large hand fell upon Crowley’s shoulder and he had to clench his fists to keep from shoving Gabriel away.

“Oh, that’s great,” Gabriel said. “Try that line on him. See what happens.”

Crowley wasn’t used to having to look up at people. Seeing Gabriel smirking down at him, almost leering, was singularly unpleasant, and he was forced to wonder just how often Aziraphale had had to endure it. No wonder his skin was crawling.

 _I will never make him feel like this,_ he promised himself. _I will never make him feel small or weak. Never humiliate him._

“He’s a demon.” Gabriel’s voice was quiet, now, almost pleading. “You’ll end up living in Hell one way or another.”

 _Never,_ Crowley vowed. _Never, angel, I promise._

The rest of the lift ride passed in merciful silence. Crowley found himself stepping out into a normal office building, humans bustling to and fro and taking no notice of him whatsoever. It was comforting. 

He walked on legs that still felt a half-step out of sync with how his body wanted to move, heading for their rendezvous point in the park.

At least Aziraphale had not had to hear that. Gabriel had tried to get his last licks in, and failed. Crowley was going to dedicate the rest of his existence to making Aziraphale happy.

_I won’t go too fast for you, angel. We can take all the time you need. We have all the time we want._

Aziraphale wasn’t going to have to think about Gabriel ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific content warnings for this chapter besides Gabriel being a manipulative POS, as one does.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would not have gotten completed on time without the encouragement of the lovely people at The Repossessed Discord server. It's a wonderful place that I highly recommend checking out if you're a fan of dark Good Omens content.

Michael returned from Hell at the same time Gabriel got back from escorting Aziraphale out of Heaven.

He didn’t even need to ask her what had happened. The look on her face was enough.

Gabriel spent Michael’s debriefing maintaining a neutral expression and ignoring the throbbing pain that started behind his left eye and slowly crept all the way down the back of his neck. He barely heard a word she said. When he informed the other archangels he would be taking some time to think things over in his office and did not wish to be disturbed, no one argued.

He shut himself inside his office. He took care to make sure the walls were soundproofed. He took off his jacket and carefully hung it on the back of his chair. He loosened his tie.

He took a deep breath, and when he let it out a thunderbolt that would have leveled a mountain on Earth erupted in the confines of the room.

Shaking, he surveyed the wreckage as the smoke cleared. Furniture, blackened and smoldering. Walls smudged with ash all the way up to the ceiling. His clothes in tatters, and an acrid smell that told him his hair was singed as well.

He was mildly surprised to notice his wings were out. He lowered them for a closer look, the snowy-white of them blinding against the chaotic black and grey his office had become. Each feather, clean and pure and perfect.

Like how everything should have been.

Gabriel blinked. His clothes repaired themselves, and the soot and ash vanished from his skin. He did not repair his office, not yet. The thought of returning to work, of sitting down at this desk and going over paper forms as he had for every day of human history before, filled him with a physical sense of revulsion, a sick clenching in his chest.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

If things had gone according to plan, he would be in the thick of battle right now. Commanding glittering ranks of Heavenly troops, watching them fall upon the forces of Hell in perfectly coordinated wrath, dispensing divine justice and cleansing the very fabric of existence with each blessed thrust and slash.

Perfect. _Everything_ would have been perfect.

And at the end of it…peace. No more conflict. No more questions. No more _wanting_ things, no more catering to the whims of a corporation he had never truly felt at home in, no more perplexing silence from the Creator. Nothing but celestial bliss, for all eternity.

Perfect. Perfect. It was _supposed to be perfect._

And _someone_ had taken that away from him. Someone…

For one black moment, the focus of Gabriel’s rage shifted to the Almighty Herself. 

For She had allowed this to happen, had She not? She had _lied_ to them all, told them of Her plan and then _changed_ it, with no regard for the hearts that would break at such a change, no comfort for the suffering it would cause…

Gabriel threw his hands up over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t ever think that again, forgive me…”

After a few minutes, he was able to banish those treasonous thoughts. He checked his wings again. They remained pristine, and his terror eased.

The rage, however, remained. It was wrong for him to feel such things toward the Almighty, but that had simply been a temporary lapse in judgement. The rage itself was not a sin as long as it was directed at the proper target.

Gabriel knew the proper target.

Crowley wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. He was supposed to be a hazy, distant memory like the rest of his kind, a cautionary tale for all angels who might stray. And then, later, when eons of bliss had overshadowed Hell’s existence many times over, perhaps not even a memory. What need was there to remember bad when there was only going to be good, forever and ever?

Even with that future obliterated, Crowley was still supposed to be gone. He and Aziraphale both. But the Almighty had seen fit to preserve them, to let them think they had won. 

Gabriel’s wrath settled warm and heavy in his chest.

He had been promised a war. 

And in Her wisdom, the Almighty had given him one.

*************

The look on Aziraphale’s face at the sight of the restored bookshop was something Crowley intended to treasure until the end of time.

 _It’s yours, angel,_ he thought as he watched Aziraphale move among the shelves, gracing the occasional tome with a light, reverent touch or a coo of appreciation. _Your faith, your courage, your love, rewarded. Sometimes, things are exactly as they should be, and I know in my heart this is where you belong. In this moment, getting everything you deserve._

Crowley hoped he knew what Aziraphale deserved. He was good at knowing what people wanted, but those things were not always the same.

He took off his sunglasses and shoved his hands into his pockets. He didn’t want to fidget or shuffle his feet, determined not to appear impatient. Aziraphale ought to savor this experience, this reacquaintance of that which was precious to him. Crowley wasn’t going to ruin it by distracting him with the need to play host. 

Soon, though, the shy glances Aziraphale kept casting his way became impossible to dismiss. Crowley stepped further into the depths of the shop instead of lurking in the doorway like an anxious coatrack. They orbited one another slowly, tracing paths in a tightening spiral until they were standing beneath the staircase. Crowley leaned as nonchalantly as he could against the railing while Aziraphale appeared to be trying to settle on what to do with his hands.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley finally said, when a hopeful gaze from beneath the angel’s lashes overwhelmed his caution. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to know that whatever the answer is, I’m happy. I am, right now, happier than I’ve ever been, and there’s nothing in the world that can change that. Alright?”

Oh, but the angel’s eyes were endless, deep pools of longing that Crowley thought he could tip forward and fall into. 

“Alright,” Aziraphale answered, his lips shaping the word but his voice barely audible.

Crowley curled his fingers around the metal of the bannister to keep his hands from shaking.

“Can I kiss y-“

“Yes,” Aziraphale gasped, and threw himself into Crowley’s arms.

It startled Crowley so badly that he burst out laughing and didn’t manage to kiss the angel properly until Aziraphale initiated it, pulling Crowley’s face down to meet his and touching their lips together as delicately as a hummingbird sampling a flower. As soon as the contact was made, Crowley’s composure broke and he moaned, threading his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair and _really_ kissing him, deeply and passionately, wanting Aziraphale to understand that everything Crowley had to offer was his for the asking.

When they broke apart they were both laughing, as if Crowley had breathed his mirth into Aziraphale’s throat. The air between them was charged, thrumming. Crowley knew if he let his tongue get snakier it would taste like salt and wild honey. Like desire.

“Well, that…” Aziraphale breathed. “That was…”

“Yes,” Crowley agreed. “It…yes. Um.” 

He didn’t want to talk, but he also wanted to reassure Aziraphale that he wasn’t going to rush him into anything. He couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t lead to a bunch of useless stammering. Fortunately, Aziraphale took pity on him and kissed him again, slow and gentle this time, letting their bodies ease together until Crowley was pressed back against the staircase. The angle wasn’t ideal and the railing was digging into his spine a bit, but that didn’t matter. It was still perfect.

He let his eyes drift closed, let himself become more acquainted with the taste of their kisses and the warmth of Aziraphale pressed against him. It had been so long since he’d touched anyone like this, his dalliances with humans having fallen away one by one as the centuries pressed on. He’d stopped for good when they started leaving him feeling empty and curiously agitated, certain it was only sharpening his yearning for something he couldn’t have.

Now he had it, and his heart was so full, brimming with molten love and spilling over, lighting him up inside.

He wrapped his arms tighter around Aziraphale and opened his eyes.

Gabriel was standing just inside the doorway, arms folded, mouth curling up into what might have been a grin or a snarl.

Crowley broke the kiss and lurched backward, the metal bannister jabbing painfully between his ribs. 

“Ouch!” Aziraphale yelped as Crowley’s hands on him turned to vises. “Not so rough, dear, we’ve only just- Crowley?”

He looked up, concern plain on his sweet face. Crowley snapped his attention away from the spot by the door he’d been staring at, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. His heartbeat had jumped from a pleasant, anticipatory canter to a chest-cracking gallop in the space of a second, with seemingly no provocation. 

“Crowley? Are you alright?”

“I…” His mouth had gone completely dry and the words came out as a harsh croak. “Yeah, I’m fine, I…could- could we sit down?”

Curiosity furrowed the angel’s brow, but it was with no disappointment that he said, “Of course,” and beckoned Crowley toward the usual nook behind the shelves.

Once safely tucked away, Crowley felt better. The sensation of being in his favorite spot, among the familiar sights and textures of the bookshop, was almost narcotically comforting. It also was sinking in how exhausted he was. In the past forty-eight hours he had driven through fire, faced down the Devil, switched bodies twice, attended a failed execution and drunk several celebratory bottles of wine, all without so much as a catnap in between. No wonder he was jumping at shadows; he’d likely start outright hallucinating any moment.

“The spirit’s willing, angel,” he said, “but I think the flesh may be a bit weak for anything else tonight.”

Aziraphale cocked his head, confused, then his jaw dropped. “Oh! Goodness, yes, you need to rest, don’t you? All that excitement, and then…what on Earth were we thinking?” He paused as if to consider this, then a blush suffused his face. “Well, perhaps we weren’t thinking much at all, were we? Not that I, ah, regret any of it…”

He looked so gravely worried then that Crowley had to laugh, but he did it as gently as he could. “Nor I. Swear it.”

This made Aziraphale relax a bit, although he shifted in his seat in a way that signaled to Crowley that he could move on to bustling at a moment’s notice.

“I’m afraid your car is still at your place. I could call you a cab, if you’d like, or…?”

He paused in that way that indicated he had an idea, but wanted Crowley to be the one to suggest it. Crowley, still exhausted but also keen to know just how much had changed since the rest of their lives had started, hardened his heart and waited.

“You could stay here,” Aziraphale politely informed the floorboards between his feet. “I, uh, have a flat upstairs. It’s not much, and I might have to clear some books out of the way, but…”

Crowley grinned and raised an eyebrow, rather depleting his remaining energy in the process. “You inviting me into your bed, angel?”

“To sleep, you incorrigible thing,” Aziraphale replied huffily. “Obviously there’s no expectation of anything else. Not that I would presume you’d offer _anything_ else, that is-“

Tapping into an unforeseen reserve of strength to wave a hand airily, Crowley cut him off. “As adorable as you are when you get this flustered, I think I’ll like it more over breakfast. Tomorrow, yeah?”

Relief settled onto Aziraphale’s face. “Yes. That would be lovely.” He stood, and offered his elbow with a small bow. “Now, if _monsieur_ would care to be shown his quarters?”

Crowley rolled his eyes and clambered to his feet, ignoring the ridiculous offered arm in favor of hugging the angel about the waist and kissing his cheek with a loud _smack._ They helped each other up the stairs, giggling like children, giddy with the intoxication of actually being able to touch each other.

It turned out “clearing some books out of the way” meant “spending twenty minutes locating the bed beneath the miniature library that the bedroom was housing, then another ten minutes moving enough books to create a space Crowley could wedge himself into.” Aziraphale fussed over the mess, apologizing if the sheets smelled musty- he hadn’t actually used the bed for anything but storage since sometime around the turn of the century. The sheets did, in fact, smell a bit musty, but Crowley fell into them as gratefully as if they were perfumed Egyptian cotton. He was out before he’d finished kicking off his shoes, one booted foot still on the floor as his head sank into the overstuffed tartan pillow.

Aziraphale felt an almost painful wave of love for the brave, exhausted demon. He eased Crowley’s other boot off as gently as he could and nudged him the rest of the way onto the bed, lingering a moment to brush a lock of hair off his forehead. Crowley nuzzled up into the touch, and Aziraphale’s heart leapt again. He feared he may actually start weeping if things continued in this direction, so he left the bedroom with one last fond look and padded softly to the kitchen to fix himself a nightcap.

He stayed up late doing his own form of rejuvenating, namely rereading some old favorite books of poetry with a hot drink close at hand. Frequently, he made excuses to walk by the bedroom again, just so he could look in on Crowley and confirm once more that yes, he was _here_ , safe and here to stay in Aziraphale’s life.

The night crept by, and with every minute that passed Aziraphale was happier than he had ever been.

*************

Behind the open door, in the shadows where prying angel’s eyes couldn’t see him, Gabriel watched Crowley sleep and thought about the things that only he knew.

Crowley looked so peaceful now, but Gabriel knew how quickly that peace could be shattered. The wrap of fingers around a delicate wrist, a firm grip on a knee, and those golden eyes would spring open and light up with terror like a nova. There would be a struggle, the little snake’s movements quickly growing frantic as he realized he was physically outmatched. From that point on, things could go however Gabriel wanted them to. There were types of pain that would make Crowley fight back harder, and other types that would shock him into paralyzed acceptance. Breaking his fingers, for example. _That_ had been a pretty delicious discovery, back when Gabriel had first tried it.

And then there were the words he could say. Gabriel had watched Crowley tempt enough humans to know there were certain things the demon liked to hear. Sometimes it was more fun to wake him up that way, to pull him close and whisper _yes, look at you, so beautiful, I want you so badly_. To see how far he could get Crowley worked up before he realized what was going on. Hell, sometimes it was fun to just keep going, to say those tender things while he pinned Crowley’s arms above his head and fucked him breathless, to watch the tiny expressions of fear and anger and want play across his face.

So many moments that belonged to Gabriel, and no one else.

Now those moments were all Gabriel had, until the Almighty drew Her neglected children back into Her light. He was a starving animal who had been promised a feast, only to have it snatched away. All Crowley had to offer were scraps, but starving creatures would kill for scraps when there was nothing else to be had.

Aziraphale wasn’t going to take this from him, but Gabriel had to be careful. The two of them were stronger than Gabriel had realized, had access to powers he had not imagined. He would have to watch them carefully, take his time, and always stay one step ahead of the enemy.

Crowley rolled onto his side and murmured something into the pillow. The poor thing had nightmares, had suffered them as long as Gabriel had known him. A small penance for his sins, but a just one nonetheless.

Leaning over him, Gabriel placed a light kiss on the demon’s temple.

“Dream of me, gorgeous,” he whispered.

He vanished with a silent, muted flash, like heat lightning.

Alone on the bed, Crowley huddled into a ball and began to shiver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings for this chapter:
> 
> \- References to past rape and abuse


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think trying to understand how Gabriel's mind is working is making _me_ slightly crazy. So that's fun.

Much of Aziraphale’s existence on Earth had been defined by his belief that anything worth doing, was worth learning how to do properly.

It was how he managed his business affairs, it was how he maintained the possessions he treasured far past their natural lifespans, and it was, whenever possible, how he got to know people better. New experiences interested him. Shortcuts did not.

Take kissing, for example. It was a common enough practice that he could have, through a little celestial prying, acquired more knowledge on the subject than he would know what to do with. Even if he would rather not sift through the collective human consciousness, there was a nearly endless supply of books, poems and songs on the subject for his edification. However, his instinct told him that the best and truest way to achieve mastery of this skill was through diligent, hands-on experience.

Luckily for him, Crowley seemed to agree.

They were stretched out on the couch in the back room, the shop closed for the morning. Crowley was wrapped around him in some way Aziraphale found wonderfully innovative; clasped against his side but also above him somehow, leaning down to give him warm, melting kisses with the barest possible breaks for air in between. Aziraphale’s tie was gone. Crowley had removed it at the angel’s consent, and in similar fashion had worked the top three buttons of his shirt open. Now he was slowly, tentatively letting his lips trace lower, feather-light along Aziraphale’s jawline and the skin of his throat, pausing every so often to look up into his eyes and confirm Aziraphale’s permission to keep going. 

_I don’t want to go too fast for you_ , Crowley had said that first morning over breakfast, and although he’d said it teasingly there was a vulnerability there that sliced through Aziraphale like a knife. He’d taken Crowley’s hand and promised him that he would be honest, that if things went too fast Aziraphale would tell him, and that no matter what the pace all he wanted was for the both of them to be happy. Crowley appeared to take this to heart, but Aziraphale could tell he still worried.

“That feels wonderful, darling,” he sighed as Crowley found a particularly tender spot below his ear. “Please don’t stop.”

Crowley let out a low, satisfied hum that made Aziraphale’s heart swoop in his chest. “Love your skin, angel,” he whispered. He hid his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and breathed deeply. “Love the way you smell. I’ll do this all day if you let me.”

“I’ve a mind to do just that.”

Aziraphale let his hand that had been resting on Crowley’s waist drift down to the small of his back. There was a thin stripe of bare skin there where his shirt had ridden up, and as his fingers skated across it Aziraphale was reminded how much more of Crowley’s body there was concealed beneath his clothes. The thought sent an alarming rush of blood to his extremities and he guessed he had probably started blushing again. He had done a lot of that over the past few days. He stroked that little exposed patch of skin in curious, widening circles, until his fingers were daring to just brush beneath Crowley’s belt. A scant few inches lower and touching could easily become groping, something Crowley seemed quite keen on, judging by the way he laughed softly and arched his back.

“The more subtle you try to be about it, the more it tickles, you know,” he said, looking down at Aziraphale with wicked approval.

Ears burning, Aziraphale was about to stammer out some retort, when the sound of someone clearing their throat out in the main room scared the living daylights out of both of them.

They flew apart, looking for all the world like a pair of necking teenagers caught by a parent who was not supposed to be home for hours yet. Crowley regarded the doorway where the noise had come from with a deep scowl.

“Thought you said the shop was closed.”

“It is.” Aziraphale hurriedly got to his feet, buttoning his shirt back up and looking around for his tie. He couldn’t find it and settled for running a smoothing hand through his hair before marching out front to send the interloper on their way.

The pleasant warmth suffusing Aziraphale’s body evaporated at the sight of Gabriel standing by the old-fashioned till, drumming his fingers impatiently on a stack of paper in front of him. 

“Aziraphale,” he said coldly. “Hope I’m not interrupting something.”

The way he said it made it clear he knew he was doing just that. Aziraphale could not help but make another appraisal of his own appearance, noting his flushed face, his missing tie and coat, the rumpled state of his trousers. He thought it must look perfectly obvious what he’d been up to.

 _Well, so what?_ a voice in his head that sounded a lot like Crowley piped up. _You don’t answer to him anymore. You two could have been snogging right out in front of the biographies and he wouldn’t be able to say boo about it._

This was true, but it was one thing to tell oneself that and another to look at Gabriel and just forget the thousands of years spent seeking his approval and being found wanting. Aziraphale tried to shove away the impulse to fuss with himself more. He knew all about the spectacle Crowley had made of him in Heaven; it wouldn’t do to regress back to his old behavior now.

“Good morning, Gabriel,” he said in what he hoped were appropriately icy tones. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get too excited about it,” Gabriel snapped. He did not, Aziraphale noticed, look all that well. There was a hollow-eyed quality to him that Aziraphale tended to associate with humans who were not getting enough sleep. Gabriel shoved the stack of papers toward him, then slapped a gold fountain pen on top. “You need to sign these.”

Aziraphale leaned forward to examine the forms. They were from the Celestial Records department, and appeared to be mostly concerned with the storage and dissemination of his meager assets that remained in Heaven. He noted with some amusement that he was still being dinged for misplacing that damned flaming sword. He finished reading the first form, set it aside, and picked up the next. Gabriel sighed theatrically.

“Come on. Some of us still have schedules to stick to.”

The acidic contempt in Gabriel’s tone made Aziraphale cringe before he could stop himself. He tried to cover it with a discreet cough. “Just going over the fine print. You understand, of course.”

Gabriel appeared to preparing another snide remark in response to that, but before he could speak something behind Aziraphale distracted him. His head snapped up and his eyes narrowed; Aziraphale turned, already fairly certain as to what had drawn the archangel’s attention.

Crowley had sidled out of the back room and was leaning against a shelf, watching the two angels with serpentine avidity. He had donned his sunglasses but had conspicuously not tucked his shirt back in or smoothed down his tousled hair. Gabriel visibly tensed at the sight of him, and Aziraphale couldn’t exactly blame him. Crowley looked dangerous, like this, dangerous and almost dizzyingly sensuous. He couldn’t have been more obvious about what they had just been up to if he had strutted out naked.

“Gabriel,” he purred. “What brings you here? Get lost on your way to the 200th Annual Wankers Ball?”

“You want to mind your own business, snake,” Gabriel warned.

Unperturbed, Crowley stalked forward, then practically draped himself across Aziraphale to read the forms over his shoulder. He _tsked_ sadly. 

“Oh, dear. Demoted from Divine General back to glorified courier, that’s got to sting. They couldn’t find anything else you knew how to do, Gabs?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gently interrupted. “There’s no need to be rude.”

“My arse there isn’t, this overgrown pigeon tried to ki-“

“There’s no need,” Aziraphale repeated, heartbeat quickening as he watched Gabriel’s features darken. He turned his head briefly to look at Crowley, not wanting to take his eyes off the archangel for longer than he had to. “Why don’t you, er, go back to your reading? I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Crowley grumbled but unwound his arms from around Aziraphale’s waist, slinking off to the back room with a last withering glance over his shoulder. Gabriel watched him go, jaw clenching.

“So he hasn’t gotten bored with you yet. Guess that means you’re still Unfallen.”

Aziraphale busied himself signing the forms. “It would appear that God doesn’t consider friendship a sin worthy of losing my grace for.”

“Right,” Gabriel said. “Friendship. I’m sure it’s very wholesome, what you and he are doing.”

It made Aziraphale’s skin crawl, the oily way Gabriel said this last. He finished signing the forms with a harried scrawl and shoved the pen and paper back. “There. Will that be all?”

“It will. Don’t forget what I said, Aziraphale.”

Gabriel swept up the papers and vanished. Aziraphale felt better almost immediately.

In the back room, Crowley was pacing, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. He looked up sharply when Aziraphale came in, then relaxed when it was clear they were alone again.

“I don’t like him coming around like that,” Crowley said. “They’re supposed to be scared of us. He just showed up like he has every right to be here.”

“Force of habit, I think,” Aziraphale replied. “He was never one to bother sending word before his visits. I rather got used to him popping up out of nowhere.”

“I don’t like it,” Crowley said again.

“Do you suppose Hell will send something similar for you?” Aziraphale asked, wondering if that notion was what had Crowley looking so agitated all of a sudden.

Crowley raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Doubt it. And they wouldn’t send anyone important. Just an Eric, like they did for the hellfire.”

Unconvinced, Aziraphale toyed with the cuffs of his sleeves. “What did he say?”

“Hm?”

“Gabriel. He told me to remember what he said. Something about you. When you were, ah, me.”

Crowley shrugged again. “Said I’d make your life Hell. Get it, demon, ha-ha? Sure it’s what passes for wit up there.” His fidgeting seemed to be ramping up in intensity, and Aziraphale was not surprised when he turned about suddenly and said, “Think I ought to pop back over to my place, actually. Make sure there’s nobody lurking around. Meet back up later for supper?”

Aziraphale wasn’t too fond of that idea; Gabriel’s unexpected appearance had rattled him and left him feeling like they should huddle together for safety. That was, of course, ridiculous. They couldn’t well spend the rest of their lives behaving as if they were in hiding, that was entirely beside the point of what they had done. And surely Crowley, solitary creature that he so often was, needed his space.

“Supper. Perfect,” he said, forcing a weak smile, then a more genuine one when Crowley leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. “Mind how you go.”

“Always do,” Crowley answered, but there was a gravity in his voice that Aziraphale was not used to hearing. 

*************

Crowley actually had been meaning to go back to his flat for at least a few hours today, so it wasn’t like Gabriel had actually disrupted their plans.

It was hard not to see it that way, though.

The sour mood that settled over him as he drove developed into a full-blown snit by the time he arrived at his flat. His plants caught the worst of it- they’d clearly been fomenting a little rebellion of their own in his absence, and he wasn’t about to stand for it- but even after sharply re-establishing the pecking order, he didn’t feel much better. At least Aziraphale didn’t have to see him like this.

Fucking Gabriel. They should have known Heaven wouldn’t leave well enough alone. They’d probably taken to watching over them out of pure spite, hoping for the vicarious thrill of seeing them at each other’s throats. Their own little angel-versus-demon drama-fest, to serve as a proxy for the war they’d been denied. Crowley wouldn’t have cared if it wasn’t obvious they still had their hooks in Aziraphale, at least a little. That had been shame on the angel’s face, when Gabriel had looked from him to Crowley with that appraising sneer. Crowley tried not to let it sting, that knowledge that Aziraphale was still a little ashamed to be caught in his company. They had plenty of time to work these things out.

It did sting, though. And Crowley didn’t want to be cross with Aziraphale for it, so he saved his ire for Gabriel, and all the rest of them.

“Prick,” he scowled. He flung himself onto the couch and began to flip through the television channels without ever actually registering what was on. He just wanted the color and the sound, something to remind him that time was still moving along at its usual pace.

He supposed he ought to worry that Hell was planning some harassment campaign of their own, one that would be a lot more invasive than some unexpected paperwork. It might do for him to keep watch for missing time again. That business had tapered off in the eighties, around the time it seemed there was a new technological marvel coming out every day, and he had just assumed that Hell had changed their protocols, the same way that all the official documents used to be moldy scrolls signed in blood until boom, one day they’d switched to sending faxes. No need to take over his mind and direct him like a puppet when there were a dozen different machines in his flat that they could co-opt instead.

He hadn’t given up on his search for answers all at once. That same decade there had been some interesting research coming out of America regarding the recovery of suppressed memories, but that had all turned out to be a load of bollocks in the end and a complete waste of Crowley’s time. As the years had gone by and nothing ever came to a head, and then later, when he had a child to help raise and an apocalypse to avert, the missing time had seemed less important. More and more as time went on he felt comfortable thinking of it as a problem he used to have, and not a problem he was currently dealing with.

That might be about to change again. He would have to stay alert and take note of anything odd happening.

He wasn’t looking forward to telling Aziraphale, though. He could only imagine the state of anxiety the angel would work himself into armed with this new information, and Crowley hated to think that this soft, sweet honeymoon phase they were in was already coming to an end. 

That brought his mind back to the events of the past few days, infinitely more pleasant to dwell on. 

How new it all was, to touch and be touched by a being so similar to himself. At times it was almost overwhelming. They hadn’t done much more than kissing so far, and while Crowley was happy to tell them both it was for Aziraphale’s benefit, there was comfort in the slow pace for him as well. There had been times over the past few days when he’d felt like he could hardly breathe, steeped as he was in the push and pull of their mingled desire.

Crowley let his eyes slip shut, thinking of the soft little noises Aziraphale had made when Crowley had started kissing along his neck. Much of Crowley’s concentration at the time had gone toward controlling his more earthly reactions; he wasn’t sure, at this stage, how Aziraphale would feel about an erection grinding against his hip. Alone in his flat, though, he could dispense with such precautions and fully immerse himself in the memory of Aziraphale’s pulse beneath his tongue.

The television continued to burble on. Crowley ignored it. He was thinking about all the things they had yet to experience, all the things he was going to be able to do for Aziraphale, and his Effort was seizing the moment to point out that it had been on its best behavior for several days now and surely deserved some relief of its own. He curiously rubbed a hand over himself and winced at the sudden increase in tension; he was positively straining against the fabric of his jeans. 

Right. No need to waste a miracle dealing with _that_. Eyes still closed, he worked his zipper open and took himself in hand, trying to recall every detail of the moment from this morning that had nearly done him in. His angel, lips red from being kissed again and again, looking up at him with those ever-changing eyes and sighing _Please don’t stop._

Crowley didn’t think there was a single thing in the world he could refuse Aziraphale, if he was asked for it like that.

Slowly, he stroked himself, imagining how Aziraphale might like to be touched. The angel was so exquisitely sensitive, everywhere Crowley had dared to touch him. The thought of getting to apply his hands or, someone help him, his mouth, to whatever Aziraphale selected for an Effort was almost painfully compelling.

He was so close already. Just a few more good squeezes would do it, just a few more refrains of _please don’t stop, oh Crowley, that feels so good,_ echoing in his mind…

A hand closed over his throat, as hard and cold as that of a marble statue.

“Hi, gorgeous,” a voice hissed from behind him. “Am I interrupting something?”

An icicle pierced cleanly into Crowley’s heart. He opened his eyes and jolted upright. The hand tightened on his throat and another caught his wrist.

“Do you still bleed?” his unseen assailant whispered. “I have a feeling that you do.”

There was a light, metallic chime, and now the hand gripping Crowley’s throat was holding a blade to it, sharp enough that Crowley felt a trickle of blood over his Adam’s apple ahead of any pain. 

“Yes. I thought so.” Satisfied words, dreamlike. A voice Crowley recognized. “I knew She wouldn’t make you invincible. It’s just a test. That’s what all this has been.”

“Gabriel,” he gasped. “What-“

“What were you thinking about?” The knife bit him again, and Crowley felt another line of blood drip beneath his collar. “Were you thinking about teasing me back at the shop, you filthy little whore?”

“Actually, I was thinking about how lovely it would be to never have to see any of you holy wankers again, but that’s ruined now, isn’t it?” Well, his mouth always did recover from shock faster than the rest of him.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Gabriel’s voice wasn’t hushed anymore; it was strained with fury. “I could tell. Aziraphale has no idea what you are, but I do. Maybe I should visit him again. Find out what you’ve done to him so far.”

 _No,_ Crowley thought frantically. _No, stay away from him._ Because he could feel the _want_ in those words, the cold curiosity that made up the bulk of Gabriel’s imagination. Crowley would take the knife to his own flesh before he would let that imagination be turned loose upon Aziraphale.

Mindful of the knife, he craned his neck to look up into Gabriel’s hungry eyes.

“Don’t worry about Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “I’m the one you’re worried about, yeah?”

Slowly, Gabriel nodded. With the hand that wasn’t holding the knife, he traced his fingers along Crowley’s cheekbone and over his slightly parted lips.

“What do you want from me?” Crowley asked carefully.

A tremor ran through Gabriel’s body; Crowley could feel it through the steel pressed against his throat. 

The way those purple eyes swam made Crowley’s heart sink. Whatever was going on, he was certain of one thing; the Archangel Gabriel had gone insane. Crowley guessed he could ask him what he really wanted a hundred times and get at least ninety-five different answers, many of them mutually exclusive, none of them more or less true than any other. Crowley had seen enough damned souls to recognize the look, even if he didn’t know where this one had come from, or what part he’d had to play in its creation.

_Angel, what have I done? What have I gotten you into?_

Whatever it was, it was going to be up to Crowley to get the both of them out of it. And he could only do that if he was alive, and able to keep Gabriel from doing anything irreversible.

“It’s okay,” he told Gabriel, expecting any moment to feel heat washing over his chest as his jugular was slashed. “Whatever’s the problem, we can fix it, alright? No need to hurt anybody.”

“You can’t fix anything,” Gabriel laughed. “All you can do is make things worse.”

“Then why are you here, Gabriel?” There was no trace of malice in the question. Crowley spoke as if he were talking to an upset child, or maybe a wild animal with its hackles up would have been a better comparison. 

Gabriel looked like he might cry, and Crowley wondered how he’d managed to hide his madness from the rest of Heaven. It had only been a few days since the execution. Had he really deteriorated so quickly since then?

The knife twitched. Crowley held his breath, but Gabriel was only readjusting his grip, stooping down so that his face was inches away from the demon’s.

“You should get back to what you were doing,” he said against Crowley’s ear. “It looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

Crowley nearly choked. He had quite forgotten that he was sitting here with his cock out in his lap, and Gabriel’s sudden reminder to that fact made his skin want to crawl right off his body. He tried to twist his head to look at Gabriel’s face, hoping this was the archangel’s horrible attempt at a joke.

Gabriel was smiling, but he clearly wasn’t joking. Crowley felt sick.

“Go on,” he said, prodding with the knife a little. 

Swallowing down a thick lump of disgust in his throat, Crowley wrapped his hand back around his cock. The gesture was more intended to distract Gabriel and buy himself a few seconds of time to think, so he was shocked to discover he was still hard. Gabriel’s will was invading him, poisoning him, twisting his body’s reactions to suit the archangel’s whims, and had done it so insidiously that Crowley hadn’t even realized it was happening.

“Look,” he said, trying to hold on to that same placating tone. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but it isn’t-“

“It’s not right. I know that. You think I don’t know that?” The angry words breathed against Crowley’s skin made him itch. “Don’t talk anymore. I’m done hearing you talk.”

The world moved for the will of the Archangel Gabriel, and Crowley found he had nothing else he wanted to say.

His cock twitched in his hand. That part of him still wanted something, and didn’t particularly care about the details.

He didn’t think there was any way he’d be able to work himself back into the state he’d been in when Gabriel showed up, but as he reluctantly began to move his hand he felt the climax he’d been so close to rushing toward him again. Gabriel’s soft sigh of approval sent goosebumps rippling over Crowley’s neck, and the archangel seemed to take this as encouragement to keep making noise. 

“You really are a whore,” he whispered. “All that innocence yours to plunder and I find you here…doing _this_. It’s not enough that you taught the world sin, it’s not enough that you tempted _two_ angels, you’re just…insatiable.”

No, there was absolutely no way he was climaxing to this, to Gabriel’s cracked, mad voice and these horrible intimacies he was pouring into Crowley’s ear. There was no way, except that it was almost happening already, Crowley having to bite down hard on his lip to keep from tipping over. There was no way, except was it really worth trying to stop it, if it’s what Gabriel wanted? Wasn’t it best if Gabriel just got what he wanted?

“He has no idea.” Gabriel’s free hand was stroking Crowley’s cheek distractedly, a hideous parody of the way Aziraphale had been touching him only hours before. “He doesn’t, but I do.”

Two fingers thrust roughly into his mouth. He resisted the urge to bite down and tried to think, tried to come up with a way out of this, but his thoughts were smothered beneath Gabriel’s cloying magic. 

He whimpered around the fingers in his mouth before he could stop himself, and the spike of self-loathing he felt at Gabriel’s low rumble of satisfaction was worse than the fear, worse than the feel of the blade, worse than anything he could imagine.

With his pulse thundering in his ears, he came. His teeth met on nothing with a hard _click_. The pleasure moved through him in a short, violent shudder, and a bare few seconds afterward the ambient sounds of the flat began to creep back in. The low murmur of the television, the tick of his watch.

He opened his eyes, and grimaced at the mess on his hand.

The mellow buzz of release was already fading, leaving him with a sharp melancholy in his heart instead. It had happened before, both alone and with a partner, but he realized he had been hoping that sort of reaction was a thing of the past now that he and Aziraphale were free to be together. Well, it hadn’t been all that long. Perhaps it would fade with time.

Crowley miracled himself clean and did his pants back up, surprised to find his hands were shaking a little. He must have been more on edge than he thought. 

He hoped he had at least eased his own tension enough to not embarrass himself with Aziraphale in the near future. He wasn’t sure when their first time together was going to happen, but he had every intention of making sure it was perfect when it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter:  
> -Knives  
> -Forced masturbation


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a scene that is NSFW but also (hooray!) consensual. Potentially triggering content is still warned in the end notes.

“Well, I’m no expert on the subject, but it sounds like you’re talking about what the humans call selective amnesia.”

Some of the shop’s regulars had gotten too comfortable, so Aziraphale had it in his head to rearrange the shelves again. Crowley had offered to help with such flagrant insincerity that Aziraphale had gotten the hint and invited the demon to make himself comfortable and watch while he dragged shelves to and fro. Satisfied that, for the moment, Aziraphale was too busy to derail the conversation by kissing him, Crowley broached the subject of his peculiar gaps in memory.

He’d expected Aziraphale might have knowledge on the subject that he did not. He didn’t expect him to be able to come up with the technical term for it right off the top of his head, while it had taken Crowley cumulative hours of research to uncover the same thing. He’d be annoyed if it wasn’t clear that Aziraphale had no idea he was showing off.

“Yeah, that’s what they call it when it happens to _them_ ,” he pointed out. “I haven’t exactly got a human brain, have I? I think what’s happened to me is…something else. Something…”

“Infernal?”

“Right.” Crowley waited for Aziraphale to tell him he was being ridiculous, or accuse him of making the whole thing up, and when he didn’t felt something loosen in his shoulders. “They used to do something like that, you know. Just drop stuff in my head. Makes sense they’d be able to just take stuff out.”

Aziraphale looked over at him for the first time, worry starting to crease his forehead. “What sort of things would they feel a need to take out?”

“Dunno.” Crowley fidgeted. “Most of the time I didn’t want to know, to be honest.”

“Have you ever been able to recall anything from your nightmares?” Aziraphale asked as he began to shelve a row of hardcovers.

Crowley was silent for so long that half the shelf was finished before the angel turned back to him, concerned. 

“I have nightmares?” Crowley finally asked. “Wait, how do _you_ know that?”

Guilt mingled with worry on Aziraphale’s face. “Oh, I’d never pry intentionally, please don’t misunderstand. I only, well…you know I don’t really sleep, and there have been times I’ve been reading next to you and you’ve, er, vocalized some things…”

“Talked in my sleep, you mean?”

“I’m not sure talked is the word,” Aziraphale said. “You’ve…muttered. Never anything I could clearly make out. Or you thrash about sometimes.”

“Doesn’t necessarily mean nightmares,” Crowley pointed out, although he was starting to have doubts. He rarely remembered his dreams, and he so often woke up feeling as if he hadn’t rested at all. 

Aziraphale chewed his lip, reluctant to keep going. When Crowley didn’t offer him a way out, he continued. “You’ve wept a few times as well.”

“Wept?” Crowley pronounced the word as if he didn’t know what it meant. “You’re saying I cry in my sleep?”

“Sometimes.”

“Hm. That can’t be a good sign.”

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale admitted. “I really am sorry, my dear, if this isn’t something you would have willingly chosen to share with me. I thought about waking you up when it happened, but I wasn’t sure if that wouldn’t make it worse.”

“You can wake me up.” Crowley tried to remember the last nightmare he had had, whether it had been bad enough to actually cry about, but he couldn’t recall a dream that didn’t evaporate into grey mist upon waking. “I’d much rather lose sleep with you than…whatever is happening in my dreams, I guess.”

Aziraphale looked relieved. “Well. That’s good. As for your, ah, condition, I’d be happy to do some reading on the subject if you’d like. See if there’s any way to recover what was lost, perhaps?”

Crowley wondered if he really wanted to do that. If what had been erased from his mind was bad enough to give him nightmares, did he really want it back?

But he nodded. “Thanks, angel,” he said. “That’d be great.”

**************

It was only later that evening, in bed, that Aziraphale realized that it couldn’t have been easy for Crowley to open up about his problem.

He was still so tight-lipped about how he had been treated in Hell. Aziraphale had never pried, because he had assumed that Crowley would speak of it if he wished, but it now occurred to him that his silence on the subject could easily have been interpreted as a lack of interest. 

It was how it had always been. Crowley turned up when Aziraphale needed him, then vanished to deal with his own problems alone. 

It didn’t need to be that way anymore.

“Thank you,” he said, during a quiet moment when they both stopped to breathe. “For telling me what you told me.”

They were lying on their sides, limbs loosely twined together. As soon as they stopped kissing Crowley had reached out to touch Aziraphale’s face, stroking his knuckles along his cheekbone as if to reassure himself the angel was still there.

“Don’t thank me. You may yet hate me for dragging you into it.”

“Never,” Aziraphale promised. He noticed Crowley’s eyes widen just a little bit. “Whatever is going on, I want to help. I feel I owe you, considering all the times you’ve helped me.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Crowley said. “I didn’t…I never wanted-“

“I know.” Aziraphale clasped Crowley’s hands between his. “That isn’t what I meant. I only mean to say that you can depend on me.”

“Ngk. Thanks.” Crowley was the one blushing now, and Aziraphale wasn’t at all surprised to find himself being pulled into another kiss.

Soon they were lost in it again, lips and tongues seeming to melt together as the heat between them rose. Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s waist and felt the tension in the demon’s muscles, tight as violin strings. He pulled back and saw Crowley’s eyes were hazy with desire, desire and something else he couldn’t name. Something softer.

“Tell me what you need,” Aziraphale whispered. “Please.”

Crowley hesitated, then wound his arms around Aziraphale and rolled them both until the angel was on top of him. Aziraphale made a soft noise of surprise, feeling absurdly clumsy as he tried to shift his weight onto his elbows.

“Alright?” Crowley asked softly.

Aziraphale looked down into golden eyes that were swimming with love, and nodded. As they kissed he felt the demon relax beneath him, felt the rise and fall of his chest grow slow and strong. It was difficult to ignore how this position pressed certain parts of their anatomies against each other, but even that was oddly comforting. 

_Heaven was wrong,_ he reminded himself. _This isn’t wicked. There’s nothing sinful about making each other feel good._

 _No, I’m sure it’s very wholesome,_ another voice in his head laughed. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and shoved that voice away. It had no place here, in this safe little nest they’d built themselves.

Separated by only a few layers of silk and cotton, their hardening cocks seemed to spur one another on. Soon their kisses grew urgent, fingers tangling in each other’s hair, breaths sobbing in and out whenever they pulled apart.

“Tell me this is good for you,” Crowley pleaded. “Tell me you want this.”

“I do,” Aziraphale promised. “It is. I want this, darling, I want you, always, always wanted…”

Crowley shivered and bucked his hips. The sudden change in friction nearly unmade Aziraphale right there, and he found himself bearing down with his weight to prolong that sharp jolt of pleasure. Crowley whined and squirmed beneath him, fingers scrabbling at Aziraphale’s arms, and without knowing he was going to do it, Aziraphale laced their fingers together and pinned Crowley’s hands up above his head.

The reaction this provoked was immediate and a little alarming. Crowley growled low in his chest, a wounded, almost animalistic sound, and caught Aziraphale’s lower lip between his teeth. The bright little bloom of pain made Aziraphale pull back, worried he’d gone too far, but Crowley was still looking up at him with naked lust and his prick was throbbing against Aziraphale’s thigh.

“Take what you want,” he panted. “Come on, angel.”

There was something almost desperate in the way he said it. Aziraphale released his hands and touched his face instead, trying to soothe those fevered lines from his brow. 

“I want you, dearest. Just you.”

Crowley seized his hands again, pinning himself back against the bed and thrusting his hips up at the same time. Aziraphale moaned as he was pulled nearly to the edge again and Crowley repeated the motion, whispering _please, please_ between ragged breaths. Aziraphale held Crowley down and matched his rhythm, felt himself approaching the precipice once more and buried his face against the demon’s neck.

“I love you,” he whispered into Crowley’s ear. “I love you, I love you, oh Crowley, I- I-“

He cried out helplessly as his pleasure crested, still holding onto Crowley’s hands as if he would fly off the surface of the earth if he let go. He felt Crowley’s cock pulse against him, listened to his babbling of _yes_ and _please_ and _angel_ dissolve into strained moans, kissed him as his back arched off the bed. Wrapped his arms around him and held him as they both unraveled, sagging into the mattress, trying to catch breaths they’d forgotten they didn’t need.

A stillness as warm and heavy as a wool blanket settled over the room. The angel and demon lay tangled together, kissing languidly. Aziraphale brushed a lock of hair out of Crowley’s eyes, unsure if it was damp with sweat or tears. 

“I love you too,” Crowley said softly. “In case that wasn’t obvious.”

Aziraphale blinked a few times before stammering, “I’m very happy to hear that.” Crowley’s face broke apart into a real smile and soon they were both laughing, repeating the sentiment again as they lay with their foreheads pressed together.

After a somewhat embarrassing amount of this, Aziraphale became aware of the uncomfortable stickiness in his pajamas. He sat up and frowned at his lap, but Crowley was already waving his hand, dismissing the mess from Aziraphale’s and, presumably, his own clothing. 

“So.” Crowley stretched his long limbs, a loose, easy grin on his face. “That just happened.”

“It did,” Aziraphale agreed. “Are you, er, feeling alright?”

“I’m fairly certain I’ve never felt better,” Crowley said. He took Aziraphale’s hand and pressed his lips against his knuckles. “What about you, love? How are you feeling?”

Aziraphale considered it. He had always been taught that carnal acts, no matter how satisfying in the moment, would be ultimately disappointing, as there was no bliss that could compare to the presence of the Almighty. But right now, his body sated and his heart full, he could think of nothing that would improve how he felt.

Well, almost nothing.

“I feel marvelous,” he told Crowley. “But, if I’m being honest, also a bit hungry.”

Crowley stared, then burst out laughing. He was still snickering as Aziraphale untangled himself and went off to the kitchen in search of a snack, the sound echoing around the tiny flat like the sweetest music.

**************

Crowley accepted a small bite of sponge cake off Aziraphale’s plate and then promptly dozed off, curled up on his side like a great satisfied cat. Aziraphale made himself comfortable with a book and soon fell into the dreamlike concentration that served him instead of sleep, the quiet sounds of pages turning and Crowley’s warm presence at his side as soothing as a lullaby.

Usually at times like these, a herd of elephants could stampede through the room and have trouble getting Aziraphale’s attention, but he noticed right away when the timbre of Crowley’s snores changed. Perhaps his senses had been heightened by the still-new presence of another being in his space, or perhaps he had been expecting something like this to happen.

The demon’s breathing had grown labored, as if he were performing something physically taxing. It came out of him in ragged little gasps, almost hyperventilating. Just the sound of them made Aziraphale’s chest ache. The shivering came next, his shoulders hitching, cold sweat breaking out on his face. As he watched, Crowley’s left hand, which had been resting peacefully next to Aziraphale’s knee, curled and began clawing at the sheets. It was a horrible thing to look at, like the futile struggles of an animal caught in a trap.

He remembered another time, hundreds of years ago, when he had watched Crowley suffer in this way and had done nothing. Had maybe even, he thought, allowed himself to believe that Crowley deserved it. Shame roiled in Aziraphale’s gut and he moved to put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, to shake him awake and banish whatever visions tormented him.

Crowley turned his face halfway into the pillow and whined, “No, no, no.” Aziraphale’s hand stopped in midair.

It was not meant for him. He knew that. But Crowley had never spoken so clearly before while sleeping, and it occurred to Aziraphale that if he continued like this, there might be clues as to who was responsible. 

He lowered his hand back to his side and watched closely. He felt like a monster for every second he continued to let Crowley cry and tremble without offering comfort, and tried to tell himself it was for the greater good, that Crowley would likely _ask_ him to do this very thing had they thought of it earlier. These excuses left a sour taste in his mouth, though, a taste that reminded him of his performance reviews in Heaven. They did so love to use the greater good as a cudgel to beat him with, up there. He couldn’t help but hate himself a little for turning around and using it on the being he loved.

Crowley’s arms were drawn up to hide his face, a gesture of defense as instinctive as that of any human child. Aziraphale’s heart twisted as he heard a muffled sob. He tried to steel himself, to remember that Crowley was in no actual danger, he was safe at Aziraphale’s side. Then the demon spoke again, his voice cracked and exhausted as if he’d been weeping for hours, not minutes.

“I can’t. I _can’t._ ”

Aziraphale’s willpower broke. He couldn’t stand to listen to this a second longer. He laid a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, shocked at the heat of him through his shirt, and shook him gently.

“Crowley, wake up. Wake up, sweetheart.”

He was leaning over Crowley, trying to see his eyes through the cage of his arms, wanting him to know where he was and who he was with the moment he opened them. This turned out to be a mistake. Eyes still closed, Crowley lashed out with his fists. His left did little more than clip Aziraphale’s ear, but his right landed true, clobbering the angel squarely in the eye and sending him reeling backwards.

Aziraphale yelped, more in surprise than pain. Clutching the smarting side of his face, he looked through his uninjured eye as Crowley violently thrashed away, his motions carrying him right to the edge of the bed and then over it, tumbling to the floor in a tangle of sheets and flailing limbs.

“Oh, bollocks,” Aziraphale muttered, thinking this situation definitely merited the one curse word a month he had allotted himself in his retirement. He hurried over to Crowley’s side of the bed and found the demon huddled into a ball, still shielding his face with his arms as best he could.

“Stop,” he was crying. “Stop, I don’t want to…I can’t…”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale regretted his sharp tone, but acknowledged that it would probably cut through Crowley’s terror in a way gentleness would not. The demon fell silent immediately. “It’s me, love. It’s Aziraphale. You’re safe.”

Finally, Aziraphale caught a glimpse of Crowley’s eyes, pupils slitted into hard lines that screamed against venomous yellow. He held that gaze and did not move a muscle, not wanting to frighten Crowley any worse. He saw no recognition in his face, not yet.

“It’s alright. You were having a nightmare, but it’s over now. You’re safe.”

“Aziraphale?” Crowley whispered, and again Aziraphale was struck by how ill-used the demon’s voice sounded. It was as if he’d been screaming. “Angel, I…oh, fuck, what did I _do_ to you?”

Realizing he was still holding the side of his face, Aziraphale dropped both his hands. “Nothing, dear, really it’s fine. My fault, if I’d stopped to think a moment I would have-“

“I hit you,” Crowley said, and he sounded more desperately unhappy than he had in the throes of his nightmare. “Oh, angel, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry-“

Aziraphale didn’t think he could bear to hear Crowley babbling apologies, so he snapped his fingers and instantly healed the growing bruise on the side of his face. “See? No harm done.” Crowley relaxed a tiny bit, and Aziraphale crept forward on his hands and knees. “Would you like me to do the same for you? That was a nasty fall you took.”

Crowley shook his head. “S’fine.” Aziraphale hoped that meant that Crowley either wasn’t hurt or had chosen to heal himself, but decided not to press the issue. Instead he held out his arms.

“Would it be alright if I held you a minute, dearest?” He waited, not coming any closer, giving Crowley space to decline if he wished.

But Crowley went to him, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s waist in a death grip and pressing his face against his chest. Aziraphale stroked his hair and tried to take deep breaths that Crowley could mimic, not wanting to pressure him to talk until they had both calmed down. Soon, whatever darkness that had descended over the room seemed to dissipate and the tension in Crowley’s body eased.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley whispered again, voice still choked with tears.

“You don’t need to be,” Aziraphale reassured him, softly kissing the crown of his head. “It was just a silly accident.”

“I thought you were someone else,” Crowley said. “I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known it was you.”

“I know.” A heavy pause, then, “Do you remember your dream?”

For a moment Aziraphale was braced to hear about the tortures of Hell or the trauma of history, but Crowley only shook his head.

“I don’t remember,” he said. “I think…I think it was something bad. I think it was something really bad, angel.”

He hid his face again. Aziraphale held onto him, unable to tell if the demon was crying or merely breathing hard, deciding it didn’t matter. There would be no more questions, not tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter:  
> \- Mild violence as a result of a panic attack


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More cuteness and consensual smut in this chapter, although I promise the plot is also jostling its way back in.

_I must have lost some time again,_ Crowley thought as he surveyed the wreckage of Aziraphale’s kitchen. _That’s the only explanation for what I’m looking at._

Something landed on his head and dripped down the side of his face. Crepe batter, falling from the ceiling. He’d gotten it on the fucking ceiling, somehow. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice, coming up the stairs. “Are you alright? I heard shouting.”

“Fine,” Crowley yelled back. “Nothing to worry about, why don’t you just wait downstairs and…oh, bugger it.”

Aziraphale stood in the doorway, hands on hips, looking from the heap of dishes in the sink to the smoking experiment on the stove as if he expected the soiled pots and pans to offer an explanation.

“Now, before you get angry, I’ll have you know that the human who wrote this recipe said she makes it for her husband all the time and it only uses two pans.” Crowley held up his phone, the screen currently obscured by a smear of raspberry jam, as proof. “So clearly we’re dealing with a deceiver of professional caliber.”

Aziraphale said nothing. He stepped backward as another globule of batter landed in front of his shoes.

“I’ll clean everything up,” Crowley promised. “And never try anything like this again. And I’ll strike the publisher of Kimmy’s French Kitchen Blog with a terrible pox. Humans still hate poxes, right?”

There was a plate full of charred yet also wet-looking discs wilting sadly on the table. Aziraphale looked at these, then at the disaster on the stove, then back at Crowley.

“You were trying to make crepes?”

“I mean, how hard could it be? People have them for breakfast. Who wants to make something difficult first thing in the morning?”

“You tried to make crepes…the human way?”

“Well.” Crowley looked at the floor, cheeks turning crimson. “I thought you’d like them better that way.”

“Have you ever cooked _anything_ before?”

“Look, I already apologized,” Crowley snapped. “No need to rub it in.”

“Darling.” Aziraphale threw his arms around Crowley and squeezed him hard. “How perfectly sweet of you.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Crowley said. “Please, I can’t take any more humiliation today.”

“Fine, I won’t call you nice things again today if you promise not to curse anyone.” Aziraphale sat down at the table and picked up a fork. Crowley winced.

“Come on, angel, you don’t have to do that.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale insisted, spearing a slippery piece of crepe weighted down with jam. “This is the first time a lover has ever made me breakfast, and I intend to enjoy it.”

He took a bite. A pensive silence settled over the room.

He forced another smile and reached forward with his fork again. Crowley snapped his fingers and the plate disappeared and rematerialized in the bin.

“Right, I hereby consider my attempt at romance appreciated. Hang on, I’ll order something in.”

The bakery around the corner didn’t do crepes, but the filled croissants that Crowley summoned instead were very nice. Aziraphale nibbled at a cheese-and-fennel and watched Crowley drink coffee and fidget and look like he was working up the nerve to say something. 

“Um,” he finally ventured. “Lover?”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. “Is that another of your four-letter words?”

“No,” Crowley shook his head hurriedly. “No, it’s…it’s good. You can call me that. If you want.”

Aziraphale beamed and tucked back into his pastry. Crowley cleared his throat.

“I’m really, really sorry about last night, angel. I thought I’d make it up to you this morning, but as you can see I cocked that up, so I just hope you’ll forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Aziraphale promised. “I healed it right away, and really, it barely hurt. I was mostly just startled.”

“Not just that,” Crowley said. “I mean, that, too, because I feel bloody awful about it, but it’s about the whole thing. We were having a nice evening and I had to go and ruin it by having hysterics. Over something I don’t even _remember._ I was being ridiculous, and I’m sorry.”

“You were _not_ being ridiculous,” Aziraphale replied, and his frustration must have put an edge in his voice he didn’t intend, because Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “We may not know what happened to you, but whatever it was it has clearly caused you a great deal of pain. A need for catharsis is perfectly natural. So please stop apologizing for it.”

Embarrassed by this outburst, Aziraphale sat back and fiddled with a napkin. “Excuse my tone. I’m not angry with you. I’m angry at whoever made you feel this way. Are you sure you don’t recall-“

“Don’t,” Crowley interrupted, voice unsteady. “I…I don’t recall, not now, and I don’t want to try. Not today. I’ll lose it again, and I can’t handle losing it in front of you twice in twenty-four hours. So can we just not? For a little longer?”

Aziraphale didn’t think this problem was going to get any better by kicking things down the road, but Crowley looked so fragile all of a sudden, eyes haunted and huge. He couldn’t very well contribute to making him feel worse.

“Alright,” Aziraphale agreed. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore. But darling, we will have to eventually. I fear if we don’t do it of our own accord, the circumstances may force us to.”

“I know,” Crowley said. “I know. I just…I want to enjoy what we have right now. Can we, please? Just enjoy being together for a little longer?”

The way he asked it melted Aziraphale’s heart. He sighed and seized Crowley’s hands.

“I intend for us to enjoy being together for a very long time.”

A sweet, boyish smile broke over Crowley’s face, and this time it stayed while they finished up their breakfast.

**************

It wasn’t easy for Aziraphale to leave the matter alone, but over the next few weeks he tried the best he could.

They were rarely out of each other’s company, so at least it was a period during which he was reasonably assured of Crowley’s safety. When Crowley slept, he did it at the bookshop, never more than a few rooms away from Aziraphale’s watchful eye. At first Aziraphale would, at a careful arm’s length, shake him awake from his nightmares. After a time, they discovered that just speaking to Crowley or giving him Aziraphale’s hand to hold was enough to soothe him without the need to wake him up. Many unanswered questions remained, but Aziraphale took this as a sign that whatever wounds the demon carried in his subconscious were slowly beginning to heal.

He conducted his research as promised, although he had to admit he had precious little idea of where to start. Memory alteration could take a number of forms. Was it physical? Metaphysical? Conditioned? Were the memories truly gone, or just overwritten? Was there a pattern to the incidents, and how could this pattern be discovered if it existed, and what could it tell them? 

Some of these questions Aziraphale asked out loud, but more often he kept them to himself. It was obvious Crowley was in no hurry to dig too deep, at least not yet. 

Aziraphale could have pressed the issue, but he hardly wished to. Not when everything else was going so well.

Tonight was no exception. They’d had a lovely evening out and had opted to walk the short distance back to Crowley’s flat rather than drive home to Soho. They were both a bit drunk, which Aziraphale supposed was the reason they were still kissing in the front hallway after ten minutes, rather than bothering to properly go inside or even take off their jackets.

Drink may have also had something to do with the configuration they found themselves in. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how they’d managed it, but he seemed to be holding Crowley up against the wall, the demon’s legs wrapped around his hips. Something about this position combined with their respective heights didn’t quite add up, and Aziraphale wondered if Crowley’s preternatural flexibility and his own angelic strength might be giving physics the runaround. He certainly felt invigorated enough to maintain things this way for quite some time, although the three scotches warming up his insides probably helped.

“We…we should go inside,” Crowley panted, hands pawing at the back of Aziraphale’s coat before regaining purchase on his shoulders.

“We are inside,” Aziraphale pointed out. “Door’s shut. I even saw you lock it.”

“Should get out of the hallway, then,” Crowley amended.

“Why?” Aziraphale pressed Crowley a little more firmly against the wall and got a very pleasant shiver in response. “It’s a nice hallway.”

“You hate it.”

“I do _not._ ”

“You hate my whole flat.”

“Well…” Aziraphale looked around at the series of questionable decorating decisions that made up Crowley’s home. “Maybe a little. So what difference does it make if we stay right here?”

“Because…” Crowley’s voice dropped to what would have been a seductive purr, had he been a bit more sober. “You holding me up like this…’s’gonna make it very hard for me to behave myself, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled, leaned in to brush a kiss against Crowley’s sigil. “Maybe I don’t want you to behave yourself.”

“Nng. You can’t _say_ things like that,” Crowley moaned. 

“Why not?”

“We’re s’posed to take things slow. Promised, didn’t I?” 

Aziraphale did remember such a conversation. At the time, moderation of speed had seemed very important to him. He couldn’t exactly recall why.

“Darling,” he crooned. “When you consider our first kiss was almost two-thousand years ago, I would say it’s safe to call our pace very responsible. Stately, even.”

Crowley laughed into their next kiss, then his lips went still and hard. He pulled away.

“Two-thousand- wait, what?”

“You remember, don’t you? Rome? The arena?”

“Hang on, hang on.” Crowley untangled himself and got his feet back on the ground. He looked Aziraphale in the eyes, a trifle unsteadily. “Are you joking? Please tell me if you’re having me on, I’m not being funny.”

“I’m not.” Aziraphale cocked his head. “We had that big fight, right before? And then we agreed never to speak of it again? And then we…didn’t…I thought you….”

Crowley had turned white as a sheet.

“Oh, shit,” he whispered. “Oh great syphilitic _bollocks_ , Aziraphale, are you fucking telling me-“

“Wait,” Aziraphale stammered. “Wait. Just wait. Um. Perhaps we should sober up?”

He was surprised Crowley hadn’t already, given how ill he looked, but the demon only nodded. They banished the alcohol from their systems and stood rubbing their aching eyes and temples.

“Alright,” Crowley said. “Start over. We kissed _when?_ ”

Aziraphale recounted the story, pausing frequently to make sure he had the sequence of events correct. As he described watching Crowley’s fight, his misplaced miracle, their argument and subsequent transgression, they moved from the hallway to the spotless kitchen. Crowley eyed the liquor cabinet but opted to grab the kettle instead when Aziraphale caught where he was looking. The water boiled the moment his fingers touched the metal; stress always made it harder to control his natural form. He was lucky he hadn’t left any scorch marks on the furniture.

“Those… _bastards_ ,” Crowley finally hissed.

Aziraphale poured two cups of tea while Crowley paced about the room. “You don’t think…”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley threw his jacket in the direction of the coatrack, missing by several feet. “I have _no memory of this happening._ Zip. Zero. I wasn’t exactly a paragon of clean living back then, but I wouldn’t have let myself forget that. Trust me.”

“So whoever is altering your memory…” Aziraphale said slowly.

“Has been doing it for two-thousand bloody years,” Crowley finished.

“And they might have been doing it to interfere with _us_ ,” Aziraphale added. “Could Hell have known about our, er, rapport? Before the Arrangement, even?”

“They might have.” Crowley slumped against the kitchen counter, head in his hands. “Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

“Don’t panic,” Aziraphale said. “Nothing’s changed, remember that. We just have more information than we did before. That’s a good thing.”

“It doesn’t feel that way,” Crowley replied. “What- what are we going to do, angel?”

He didn’t intend for the question to sound so pathetic- he honestly wanted to come up with an answer- but he heard the crack in his voice before he could stop it. In the space of a breath Aziraphale was at his side, hands sliding over Crowley’s shoulders, easing out the tension there with what already felt like old, familiar movements.

After a few moments Crowley calmed down enough to accept a mug of tea. They sipped in silence, Crowley gathering his thoughts, Aziraphale patiently waiting.

“They tried to keep us apart,” the demon finally said.

Aziraphale responded with a soft smile and a hand laid over Crowley’s. “And they couldn’t.”

They looked at each other, the weight of that fact falling over both of them. They’d overcome so many obstacles to be here, right now, in this moment together. More obstacles than either of them knew, it seemed.

It had been such a short time ago that they never touched. Such a short time ago that Crowley believed Aziraphale would never _want_ to touch him. He’d been wrong, and not only that, he known better. Once upon a time, he’d _known_ that Aziraphale desired him the same way. 

And someone had taken that away from them.

For Aziraphale, the knowledge was oddly liberating, proof that their love was a force for good that naturally must prevail. For Crowley, it was more complicated. 

_There’s some pattern to this,_ he thought as he looked down at their joined hands. _Some pattern I’m not seeing. It’s like that old demon saying: Satan never closes one door without boarding up all the others._

He just wanted to believe they’d won, for a little bit longer. Was that so much to ask, for everything to feel as perfect as their first kiss, for just a few more days?

 _Second kiss,_ he remembered. _That time at the bookshop was the second one. The first was in Rome, after my angel did something brave and foolish._

He turned to bury his nose in the angel’s curls.

“You didn’t just kiss me, in Rome,” he said. “You…you saved me.”

Aziraphale laughed. “You were rather cross about it at the time.”

You remember how I was back then,” Crowley tutted. “All work and no play. Wouldn’t have known a romantic gesture if it had bitten me.”

“Romantic, even?” Aziraphale blushed. “I think you’re giving me too much credit.”

“Hardly.” Crowley scooted close enough to wrap around Aziraphale properly once again. “Honestly, love, if I’d known you had it in you to be so…assertive, well. I may have made an embarrassment of myself sooner.”

“Is that what you’re trying to do now?” The teasing lilt had returned to Aziraphale’s voice, making the hair on the back of Crowley’s neck stand up. “Make an embarrassment of yourself?”

“I think what I’m trying to do is get you to push me up against the wall again,” Crowley admitted. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked down at the two of them entwined. “Alright, then.”

Crowley had done a lot of fantasizing about Aziraphale over the course of their acquaintanceship, but none of it had prepared him for how arousing it would be to be lifted, carried, and shoved bodily against his kitchen wall as if he weighed nothing. He clung, breathless, onto Aziraphale’s shoulders, trying to gather his thoughts, only to have them completely erased again by the scrape of the angel’s teeth against his neck.

“Are you sure?” Crowley whispered.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale’s voice was hushed, joyous. “My love, don’t you see? They were wrong. Them. Not us.”

It was a good point. Crowley made a mental note to say so, as soon as he regained the power of speech. Aziraphale was planting searching little bites along his neck and beneath the open collar of his shirt, still holding him up. The smell of lust was heavy in the air, making Crowley dizzy, his grip on Aziraphale’s sturdy form the only thing keeping him from floating away.

“What do you want, angel?” he groaned. “Anything you like, I want to do it for you. Please.”

He felt a pang of disappointment when Aziraphale set him back down, but only for a moment. Aziraphale kissed a line down Crowley’s chest, tugging his shirt open as he went, finally ending up on his knees with his hands on Crowley’s belt buckle.

“Is this alright?” His face was heart-twistingly eager. Crowley had to put his hands against the wall to steady himself.

“Yesss,” he whispered. “Yes, just, er, give me a minute. I just need to…fix something…”

“Darling, did you forget to wear an Effort?”

“I didn’t _forget_ ,” Crowley said hastily. “I just swapped flavors earlier so that I wouldn’t be, y’know, prodding at you when we were kissing.”

That wasn’t true. What had happened was Crowley’s Effort had shifted completely on its own when Aziraphale had picked him up the first time, the mental image of the angel fucking him up against the wall apparently so compelling his body had taken the liberty to be as accommodating as possible without consulting him first. Crowley didn’t want to admit that, though, that his self-control was so tenuous. He wanted so badly to be good for Aziraphale, to be something more than a wicked, lustful demon.

Aziraphale was not, however, looking like he was disappointed. He was regarding Crowley with the same intrigue with which he viewed a new item on the menu at a favorite restaurant.

“By all means, don’t feel you have to switch on my account,” he said.

Crowley supposed he should have known that Aziraphale’s innate curiosity would overshadow any regard for human sexual conventions, but he still found himself unusually self-conscious. “I…I want to be whatever you want, angel.”

“And I want you to be _you_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale answered right away. His hands slipped over Crowley’s denim-clad thighs, stopping just short of his zipper. “I love you no matter what you’re wearing. I always have. Which isn’t to say some adjustments aren’t in order.”

Crowley tensed up as Aziraphale snapped his fingers. Most of Crowley’s clothes disappeared, reappearing in a heap near his discarded jacket.

Crowley gasped, both at the sudden cold and the unexpected exposure. They’d only taken their clothes off in bed before, wrapped up in sheets and in each other. The knowledge that he was fully on display, under the not-very flattering light of his kitchen, gave him a moment’s pause.

Almost fully on display, anyway. He still had his shirtsleeves on, and one sock. Apparently Aziraphale’s control was a little shaky as well. With that thought came an almost painful wave of arousal. Aziraphale was being careless, driven to distraction by want for him, and oh Satan, he was so much stronger than Crowley, he could really do whatever he wanted…

Dizzy. He was so dizzy, and so in love.

“Angel,” he whimpered. Aziraphale was still on his knees, gently caressing Crowley’s legs, his waist, planting soft kisses on the sharp points of his hips. Transfixed, Crowley watched as Aziraphale guided his right leg, bending the knee to let it drape over his shoulder. 

“Sss-saints and blessings, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, trying to remember to choose an expletive without so many s’s next time. He couldn’t control his hiss. He could barely keep his knees from buckling. Well, one knee, the one holding him up, the other was currently slotted into the dip of Aziraphale’s shoulder as if it had been made to fit there, and it was impossible to ignore that this position spread him open like a well-paid centerfold, and and and-

“May I?” Aziraphale asked, mischief clearly sparking in his eyes now. Bastard, he was, and yet still so polite, so proper, there was no way he was about to…

“Please,” Crowley nearly sobbed. 

He wasn’t ready. Nothing on earth could prepare him for the sensation of Aziraphale plunging his tongue into the wet, aching folds of his cunt. He could never be braced for the warmth of it, for the gentle yet implacable curiosity with which the angel explored him, for the satisfied hum he made that vibrated into the pit of Crowley’s stomach. How could he prepare for that? How could he accept the reality of it happening without shattering into a million pieces?

“Bloody- Hell- Heaven- _ssssomewhere_ -”

The tip of Aziraphale’s tongue traveled back to the spot that caused Crowley’s voice to break and moved in a few lazy circles. When he switched to lapping steadily at that same spot, a stream of very eloquent profanity formed in Crowley’s mind, but couldn’t quite make it past his lips intact. He was shaking freely now, leaning most of his weight on Aziraphale lest he melt into a puddle on the floor. The angel didn’t seem to mind one bit.

“Where did you learn to _do_ this?” Crowley managed to grate out between his teeth.

Aziraphale looked up, _licked his lips_ , and laughed softly. “I read, of course.”

“Angel, if you’re about to tell me there’s a cunnilingus section hidden somewhere in your shop-“

“Don’t be ridiculous.” A kiss with just a hint of teeth behind it pressed against his tender skin. “I keep those sorts of books upstairs. I figured it couldn’t hurt to read about it as long as I never _did_ anything.”

Aziraphale went right back to it when he finished speaking, and this time when Crowley’s knee buckled Aziraphale simply grabbed his leg and drew it over his other shoulder. Now Aziraphale was the only thing keeping him off the ground, strong hands circling his waist as he held Crowley up. 

“Holy fucking-“ Crowley began, before his extensive vocabulary of blasphemies abandoned him. Aziraphale was- he was- well, he was sucking on his clit, there was no way to get around that fact, and Crowley wasn’t sure his mind wasn’t just going to snap. Trapped between the wall at his back and the relentless attention of his lover’s mouth, he had no choice but to hold on for dear life and slowly fall apart.

“Fuck,” he moaned, clawed fingers scraping sparks off the wall. “Ohfuckohfuck _ohfuck_ -“

He bit his lip and whimpered helplessly through his orgasm, fireworks bursting behind his eyelids. Pleasure swelled and dripped and pooled at the base of his spine, turning his muscles to jelly. It was good Aziraphale was still holding him up, good that the angel would never let him go, because there was no way he could stand up on his own. He couldn’t stand, couldn’t keep his thoughts straight, couldn’t speak-

He couldn’t breathe.

Crowley’s eyes popped open, took in his familiar kitchen and Aziraphale’s face, familiar as well despite the new circumstances. That same look of sweet love and quiet satisfaction, beamed up at him from beneath heavy lashes as the angel softly kissed the inside of his thigh. Beautiful. Comforting. Safe.

And yet.

He couldn’t breathe. An iron hand was on his throat, crushing the air out of him.

“Sssstop,” he hissed. His voice shook. “Stop, angel, please stop.”

Aziraphale looked up, saw something in Crowley’s eyes that made his own go wide and immediately lowered the demon to the floor. Crowley slumped against the wall and tried to catch his breath, aware of how undignified he must look, flushed and splayed-out in front of the fully-clothed angel. He could take in tiny sips of air if he thought carefully about each one, but he felt that any second those invisible fingers could clamp down on his windpipe once again.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale was saying, his voice coming from down a long tunnel. “You’re alright, Crowley. Just breathe. Breathe with me.”

His hand, pressed against the angel’s chest. The rise and fall of steady breathing. Crowley tried to match it, felt the panic recede a little.

Breathe in. Breathe out. He was fine. He’d just come so hard he thought he might have pulled a muscle, sure, but that was hardly something to turn into a sniveling mess about. He was _fine._

He surged up to kiss Aziraphale, desperate to reassure him. Aziraphale allowed this, but cautiously, arms tense as if he expected Crowley to tackle him to the ground next. 

“What do you need, sweetheart?” he whispered.

Crowley thought. What did he need, now that he had air? He was still shivery with pleasure, felt like he was drunk again, and the thought crossed his addled mind that what he really needed was to make things up to Aziraphale. He’d gone and had hysterics again, and he couldn’t make crepes worth a shit, he was an empty-headed demon whore and there was only one thing he was good for…

“You,” he sighed. “Let me…let me get you off, angel, ’s’only fair.”

He plucked at Aziraphale’s clothes, buttons slippery between his trembling fingers. Aziraphale’s hands closed gently over his.

“Not just yet, I don’t think.” He sounded sad. Of course he did. He’d done something nice for Crowley, and Crowley had screwed everything up. “Why don’t we move somewhere more comfortable?”

“M’fine,” Crowley protested. “I can- I can do it-“

His voice felt thick. Was he crying? Was he actually crying? What was _wrong_ with him?

“Oh, love.” Once again Crowley was being lifted, this time with his arms around Aziraphale’s neck. He was being carried like a child. A thought, borne up from nowhere and spoken in a voice that didn’t sound like his own-

- _you’ve been unfaithful, gorgeous, you know what that means_ -

-streaked across his mind and then was gone, leaving a cold silence in its wake.

There was no pain. He felt himself being wrapped up in something soft, felt himself lowered to somewhere warmer than his kitchen floor. His couch? His bed? He didn’t know. The pain could start anywhere. He waited.

Aziraphale’s fingers were in his hair, Aziraphale’s voice in his ear, assuring him he was safe. 

Crowley wanted to believe him. He really did.

Did he trust his own mind to let him have what he wanted?

No, of course not. Funny old world, it would be, if demons went around having faith in themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter:
> 
> -Brief flashback/panic attack
> 
> \--
> 
> For those of you wondering what Gabriel has been up to, enlightenment will be coming next week. Apologies to those who've enjoyed the break from him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of short, but heavy enough that I felt like it could stand on its own. Also, please check the end-notes for the content warnings on this one, it's not nearly as fluffy as the last few.

Shortly before dawn, Crowley drifted into a light sleep. Aziraphale watched him closely for signs of distress, but none came, and after a while he eased himself from the demon’s embrace and tiptoed out of the bedroom.

He went to the kitchen, where he washed, dried and put away the two teacups, leaving the room immaculate once again. Then he brewed a cup of coffee, although he was sure it would be some time before Crowley woke up wanting it, just so he could wash, dry and put away the coffee things. Then, with nothing else to do, he wandered into the living room and took a seat by the window. He watched London wake up far below, people hurrying to begin their days, their breath steaming in the chill morning air, and he thought.

He watched the sun rise and thought about what he knew, and what he did not know, and thought about how he needed to be brave.

He allowed himself a short prayer that he would be. He didn’t think it was all that much to ask.

When he heard Crowley stirring, he turned just in time to see the demon come slinking out of the bedroom, fully dressed save for his sunglasses. He stopped short when he saw Aziraphale, as if surprised to find him in the flat at all.

“Morning,” he said quietly, standing uncomfortably at the edge of the carpet like a guest in his own home.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale said with the sunniest smile he could manage. “I made coffee, if you like. It will have gone cold by now, I expect, but I could always-“

Crowley cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand and went to fetch the mug sitting on the counter. He dipped his finger into the liquid and a plume of steam arose and wafted about his face.

He sat on the couch next to Aziraphale’s chair, holding the mug in his hands and staring into it as if it were the barrel of a gun.

“I’ve been thinking,” Aziraphale began.

Crowley nodded.

“I think,” Aziraphale took a deep breath to steady his voice. “We need to consider the possibility that the sins committed against you were…carnal in nature.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You want to try that again, angel?” he said acidly. “Maybe phrase it in a way that doesn’t make you sound like a Sunday school teacher from the nineteenth century?”

Aziraphale flinched. He deserved that. Crowley was not an archangel; Aziraphale’s habit of trying to phrase difficult concepts as delicately as possible would not impress him. If anything, he might find them offensive.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale tried again. “What I meant to say was, I think whoever has been tampering with your memory…might have been-“

“Fucking me.” The words sounded like metal striking stone in the barren flat. “That’s what you think.”

Crowley’s eyes were fully serpentine, unreadable. He would not look at Aziraphale.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, trying not to let the overwhelming sadness he’d been feeling for hours leak into his voice. He had no right to burden Crowley with his own pain. “I know it’s a dreadful thing to contemplate, but given the information we do have, the way they interfered with us, the whole…personal way it all feels, the things you’ve said in your dreams…and you must have noticed by now that these reactions of yours tend to follow our…more intimate moments?”

Crowley nodded again, then set his coffee down, untasted. Aziraphale had the absurd impulse to miracle up a coaster for the table, and silently urged himself to focus.

“Right, well,” Crowley said, sounding like there was something lodged in his throat. “Was fun while it lasted, yeah? For what it’s worth I really did have a good time, when the times were, y’know. Not being spoiled by me. So no hard feelings here.“

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s eyes bounced from Crowley’s face to his drawn-up shoulders to the way his hands were digging into his knees. “What on earth do you mean?”

“I wish I’d figured it out on my own,” Crowley continued. “I could have told you, before you wasted your time with me. I’m sorry. I really am. I never meant to hide anything from you, and I hope you’ll forgive me enough that we can still be friends.“

“Here, now.” Aziraphale leaned forward in his chair, trying to get Crowley to make eye contact. “Crowley, did you think this conversation was me…” he groped for the proper colloquialism, “…breaking up with you?”

Crowley’s eyes flicked toward him, but only for a second. “Isn’t it? I know you’re trying to be nice about it, but there’s no way you’ll want to be with me knowing I’ve been someone else’s whore for two-thousand years, I know that, you don’t have to-“

“Darling, _no._ ” Aziraphale rose from his seat and sat on the couch next to Crowley, catching another furtive glance from the corners of his eyes. “That isn’t at _all_ what I…oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”

Crowley shook his head furiously. “It’s fine. You deserve better than me anyway, someone who isn’t fucking… _ruined_.”

“Stop.” Aziraphale’s instinct was to grab for Crowley’s hands, the knuckles of which were turning white as he gripped his knees. He resisted. Crowley needed to be shown he was worthy of respect, not cajoled and yanked about like a pet.

“Crowley. Please understand that nothing has changed about the way I feel for you since last night. May I touch you?”

Crowley looked him fully in the face this time, and nodded with a barely perceptible jerk of his head. Aziraphale pulled the demon into his arms. At first it was a bit like hugging a bundle of padded sticks, but as Aziraphale hung on and tried to pour all his love and grace into the touch, Crowley slowly began to relax and lean into him. 

“You really mean that?” Crowley asked, his voice muffled against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You’re not disgusted with me?”

“Never,” Aziraphale promised. “I could never be, oh, my poor darling.”

Crowley hid his face while Aziraphale kept the gentle words flowing. Already the tight circle of their arms around each other felt more like home than Heaven ever had. Aziraphale thought about what he would do to defend it; what he would do to someone who tried to take this away from them again.

“I don’t know what to do,” Crowley said.

“I don’t either,” Aziraphale admitted. “But we’ll figure it out, together. I promise.”

They held each other for a few minutes. When they pulled apart Crowley was already vanishing the tears lingering on his cheeks. 

“It’s not fair,” he said as he picked up his coffee and took a cautious sip. “I really thought this panic attack rubbish would go away on its own. It seemed to be doing so, for a while. Before we- before it started getting worse again.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said. “But I don’t think we can expect it to just go away. Not when it seems the trauma is being reinforced.”

Crowley looked up sharply. “You think it’s still happening.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Aziraphale replied quickly. “I just think the best way for you to actually heal would be for us to be one-hundred percent certain that it _isn’t_ still happening. And to do that…”

“We need to know who it is,” Crowley finished. “And make them stop, somehow.”

“I’ve some ideas to that end,” Aziraphale said. “I’d be lying if I said that all of them are conceived in the spirit of divine mercy.”

Crowley laughed bitterly. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, angel…”

Aziraphale watched as the contents of the mug in Crowley’s hands began to smoke.

“You’re going to have to wait your turn.”

**************

It wasn’t easy to find sacred ground that wasn’t crawling with humans. Gabriel supposed he should have foreseen that, but all his recent intel on human activities told him group worship was declining as a practice. It hadn’t occurred to him that humans who didn’t even believe in God would spend their free time visiting ruined churches and abandoned monasteries for no other reason than to marvel at their own architectural accomplishments.

They did have a knack for being infuriating, humans. Gabriel had really been looking forward to all of them being dead.

Well. If there was anything everyone in Heaven was currently learning, it was that you didn’t always get what you wanted.

The only consolation was that the other archangels weren’t faring much better than Gabriel was. Uriel had been sequestered in their office for weeks, lost in silent meditation. Michael had disappeared into the Amazon with a case of rum and a hunting knife and warned everyone not to contact her unless there was an emergency. Sandalphon was doing his best to cover for the absence of his superiors, but there was a sense of futility about the work in Heaven these days that not even his bull-headed enthusiasm for the chain of command could offset. 

It was a shame, but Gabriel knew exactly who could fix that particular problem, if She ever deigned to do so. In the meantime, it gave him space to plan.

He’d finally located a suitable spot. There was a grove deep in the forests of where the humans called Siberia. People had built and worshipped and died here, taking their faith with them. The ground remained consecrated and abandoned, and it was on this site that Gabriel now stood, listening to the trees creak in the icy wind.

It was peaceful, in a stark way. Quiet, gray, austere. Cold stone and dark wood. It was, really, not all that different from the aesthetics of Crowley’s apartment. Gabriel could imagine his little serpent feeling very much at home here.

He took a deep breath of pine-scented air, and then stepped between the molecules to bring himself somewhere else.

Physically it wasn’t far to travel. Only twenty feet or so, straight down from the clearing in which he’d been standing. Metaphysically, however, it was an arduous journey. The consecrated ground moved for him, but reluctantly, inclined by its blessed status to remain unchanged. It matched the strength it gave him and pushed back, and it was only with great effort that Gabriel was able to set his will and move himself into the stone chamber beneath the earth.

The chamber was small, an eight-foot square made of white marble shot through with purple veins. Gabriel had shaped it from raw firmament, and there were no seams, no tool marks, no way in or out but divine intention. Outside, it looked pristine.

Inside, it was an abattoir.

Streaks of black and red painted the wall, distinct handprints dissolving into wild splotches and drips. The place smelled of ash, of sweat, of insanity. A tiny little microcosm of Hell, with only one damned soul to call it home. 

The demon trapped in the box looked wildly at Gabriel as soon as he materialized and lunged at him, bloody fingers smudging the lapels of his suit.

“Let me out,” the demon begged. “Let me out, please, please, I’ll do anything you want.”

Horrified eyes bulged in the creature’s gaunt face. Beneath his chin, a raw red smile was opened across his throat, jagged and uneven. Gabriel looked from this to the demon’s sticky fingers and smirked.

“It take it discorporating yourself didn’t work, then?”

“Please,” the demon whimpered, collapsing into a ball at Gabriel’s feet. “Don’t leave me here again, I can’t take it, please.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes and grabbed the demon by the scruff of his neck. Entering the chamber had been difficult on his own; it was even harder to bring the demon out with him. The box had been designed to contain occult beings, and crafted so well that even its creator found it a challenge to make it defy its function.

Gabriel could barely contain his excitement to really put it to use.

The two of them materialized in the clearing. The demon cried out, first with gratitude at the sight of the sky and trees, then in pain as he realized the ground he was on was still consecrated. He shifted nervously from foot to foot after Gabriel helped him stand, which combined with the twin tufts of hair on his head and his huge dark eyes made him look very much like a frightened rabbit. A frightened rabbit with its throat ripped open.

Gabriel smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

“Relax,” he said. “We’re done here. I really appreciate your help.”

“You…you can’t do that,” the demon said, his bottom lip quivering. “You’re an angel, you’re not supposed to torture people. Beelzebub won’t stand for this, we had a _deal_.”

“Well, uh…” Gabriel couldn’t remember the demon’s name. “Friend. If you have a complaint, you’re welcome to take it to the Inter-Dimensional Oversight Board and file a grievance. But that might jeopardize Heaven and Hell’s new working arrangement, so if I were you, I’d be a team player and just-“

He put his hand on the demon’s neck.

“Forget it.”

The demon’s wounds healed and his eyes went wide, before calm washed over his face. When he looked around the glade again it was with curiosity, not fear, although he still was clearly uncomfortable on the holy ground.

“Ready, then?” he asked, in a completely different tone of voice from the hysterical wheeze of a few minutes ago. “Hell said you needed a demon for a special project.”

“Not anymore,” Gabriel said. “You can go home. Here, I know a shortcut.”

His hand on the demon’s neck tightened. There was a brittle _snap_ like a twig being stepped on.

The demon collapsed into a heap. Gabriel looked down at him and watched his eyes flit randomly from tree to tree, his breath coming in rapid little gurgles. He cocked his head. He thought things died right away when their necks broke. The demon was clearly still alive, and, if the look in his eyes was any indication, in quite a bit of pain.

Curious, Gabriel crouched down next to him, watching those dark eyes track his movements. He was actually kind of pretty, for a demon. No slime, no fangs. He reached out to touch those ear-like tufts of hair, then to run his hand over his face to see if his skin was as soft as it looked.

The demon snarled and sank his teeth into the heel of Gabriel’s hand. Gabriel yanked it away and heard another _snap_ , the demon slumping back into the earth.

“Pretty _and_ a fighter,” Gabriel mused. He looked at the bite mark on his hand and smiled. “It’s too bad we can’t get to know each other better. But I’m spoken for.”

He drew back his arm and slammed his fist into the demon’s face. 

Then he did it again. And again.

He kept going when his arm got tired, and when the sounds of his fist hitting the demon’s skull took on a distinctly wet tone.

When he finally stopped, there wasn’t much left of the poor little guy above the shoulders. Gabriel looked at his hands and the cuffs of his coat, black with blood and ichor. 

Before he blinked them clean, he brought his right hand up to his mouth and licked a stripe off his knuckles.

Just a taste, to tide him over.

He’d have the real thing soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include:  
> \- Discussions of rape and self/victim-blaming  
> \- Implied/referenced self-mutilation and attempted suicide  
> \- Torture and murder of a minor demon character (not permanent, but pretty gruesome)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific content warnings for this chapter. We're in "eye of the storm" territory this week.

Aziraphale stood in the doorway to the bedroom, notebook in hand, transfixed by the beauty of the sight before him.

Crowley was seated on the bed, knees drawn up to his chest, bright afternoon sunlight washing him in gold. On his face was a look of peaceful concentration, the face of an artist at their canvas or a scholar deep in thought.

His wings were out, curving around in front of him, and he was running feather after feather through his long, clever fingers, smoothing and straightening each one to a perfect gloss.

He looked so utterly lovely that Aziraphale forgot about the notes he had been taking, about the litany of questions he had come up here to ask. He didn’t want to say a word, didn’t want to do anything to spoil this picture.

Some sound must have escaped him, though, because Crowley looked up.

“Hey,” he said with a shy smile. “Not the best place to do this, I know, but they’ve been itching me like mad all morning. Promise I won’t leave your bed a mess, angel.”

“I…” Aziraphale cleared his throat and tried again. “Forgive me, my dear, I’m gawking at you, aren’t I? Your wings, they…they really are magnificent.”

“These old things?” Crowley blushed. “They’re not what they used to be. But I try to take care of them.”

“How…” Aziraphale peered around at Crowley’s back, where the feathers appeared just as lustrously groomed. “How do you reach?”

Crowley laughed. “I twist. Snake, remember? Very bendy.” He swiveled a bit to demonstrate, looking inhumanly adorable in every sense of the word. “Wait, how do _you_ reach?”

“I suppose I don’t, really,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t believe I’ve had a real thorough preening since, well, since before I was stationed on Earth.”

“What?” Crowley goggled at him. “Come on, that can’t be right! Surely someone in Heaven was willing to help you out.”

“I didn’t have many friends in Heaven, Crowley,” Aziraphale reminded him. “Certainly none I felt comfortable doing something that intimate with.”

Crowley frowned. “Intimate? I don’t remember it being like that. With my old crew it was more like, I dunno, martinis after work? Just something we did to unwind.”

Aziraphale shrugged uncomfortably. “Things changed after the Fall. They’ve discouraged touching up there since then. Gabriel might pat me on the shoulder if he was in a particularly good mood, but that’s about as far as it went.”

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “Well, bollocks to that,” he said. He patted the mattress in front of him. “Come over here, why don’t you? I’ll do yours too.”

“Oh, I couldn’t impose,” Aziraphale said, but there was already an itch forming between his shoulder blades at the thought of those fingers on his wings. It really had been so long since he’d taken decent care of them. 

“Who’s imposing? I’m retired, angel. Literally got nothing better to do.” He hesitated. “Unless you’d really rather not. I didn’t mean-“

“No,” Aziraphale said. “No, I…I would love it if you’d groom my wings for me, my dear. Thank you.”

Crowley beamed and scooted back to make room. Aziraphale settled down gingerly in front of him and took a deep breath.

There was a _pop_ of displaced air, a rustling of feathers and then a soft laugh from Crowley.

“Are they that bad?” Aziraphale asked, turning to look at him and getting a face-full of white for his trouble.

“No,” Crowley said. “Just nearly knocked me off the bed. I forgot how sudden it is when it’s someone else.”

Crowley’s dry, affable tone made it easy to forget how unusual this situation was for Aziraphale. When you got right down to it, it was really no different than going to a barber or a manicurist. No need to feel self-conscious, and if his wings did in fact look a bit worse for wear, that was all the more reason to let someone tend to them.

Goodness, how long _had_ it been? Aziraphale couldn’t remember. Those years after the Fall had been so fraught, no angel wanting to appear to have gotten too emotionally involved with another. Everyone was wondering who the next Lucifer was going to be, and no one wanted to end up on a list of known associates when they were finally revealed.

In the end Aziraphale had ended up being Heaven’s next traitor, and his dutiful millennia of loneliness had all been in vain.

He closed his eyes, listening to Crowley’s chit-chat as he started at the base of Aziraphale’s wings and worked his way out, responding more to the rhythms of the demon’s voice than to any words he was saying. The sensation of his hard-to-reach feathers being carefully straightened was deeply satisfying, like an itch gone un-eased for years finally being scratched. He couldn’t help arching his back a little and sighing with pleasure.

“Good?” Crowley asked gently. His voice carried interest, but no expectation. Aziraphale understood that Crowley actually wanted to know if Aziraphale was enjoying it, rather than expecting him to just say _Yes._ How accustomed he had grown to that being the norm, working for Heaven.

“Very,” Aziraphale agreed, letting his wings stretch out a bit more. “You really are too good to me, my love.”

“Not possible,” Crowley said. Aziraphale felt the soft brush of lips against the back of his neck.

A few more minutes of contented silence went by, then Crowley asked, “What’s in the notebook?” The casual way he asked it was almost believable, if Aziraphale couldn’t detect the slightest falter in the movement of his hands.

“Just some theories I’ve been jotting down,” he answered. “About, er…your condition.”

A small sound of derision came at that. Crowley remained unamused by Aziraphale’s habit of relying on euphemisms, but he accepted that it wasn’t something that could be dispensed with right away. 

“Anything pressing?” Crowley finally asked. The tone was carefully neutral, but Aziraphale knew the demon was asking if this was a topic that could be safely left for another time. He was still painfully self-conscious of his trauma “ruining” their more sensual moments together.

Aziraphale was torn. He knew he should push the issue more often, if only to disabuse Crowley of the notion that it was a subject to be avoided at all costs. But it was so hard to insist on something that would distress his beloved so. The effect was that they ended up talking about in during the brief windows when Crowley felt safe enough to open up, but not so relaxed that things were inclined to get more amorous. Needless to say, it was an inefficient system.

At least he could make sure Crowley was safe. Their newfound urge to spend nearly every moment together meant they could be twice as vigilant about missing time, and no such incident had occurred since Crowley had told him about it. Whatever malignant forces haunted Crowley’s dreams, they had no place in their lives, and Aziraphale intended to keep it that way as long as possible.

“Nothing significant, as of yet,” Aziraphale replied. Then, regretting it as soon as he spoke, certain he was about to start an argument but unable to help himself: “I still think trying to recover the memories is our most sensible course of action.”

Crowley’s hands went still. “Sensible.”

“Whatever happened has already happened,” Aziraphale pressed. “It’s the only way for us to gather useful information without putting you in any danger, or attracting the attention of anyone in Hell. I know it’s an unpleasant prospect, but when you consider the consequences-“

“I’ve considered them,” Crowley said. “Have you? Have you really, angel?”

“I’m sure I-“

“Aziraphale.” Crowley tapped lightly on his shoulder, encouraging him to turn around. When they were seated face to face, Aziraphale saw the demon’s eyes were grave. “You’ve seen the- the after, for people, yeah? People who’ve…who’ve been….”

No Heavenly reward or Hellish torture could have made Aziraphale finish that sentence for Crowley, and he was so worried that would turn out to represent a failure on his part.

He nodded, choosing as he so often had to let certain words go unsaid. He’d seen all manner of horrible things humans did to one another. He’d also seen how strong they could be, how resilient in their will to survive, and he was sure that Crowley had that same strength within himself. He’d said as much before and intended to say it again, but Crowley stopped him.

“We’re talking about…” Crowley took a shaky breath. “Bloody _centuries_ of that business, maybe longer. Someone powerful enough to do what they’ve done would have…would have been able to do anything they wanted to me, and…”

The demon was clearly working himself into a state, but Aziraphale feared he’d make things worse by trying to quiet him. Instead he took hold of Crowley’s hands and waited patiently for him to steady himself.

“I don’t want to be the person those things happened to,” Crowley whispered. “And I don’t want you to have to…clean up that _mess_ …whatever’s left of me after we- after we know-“

He was starting to hyperventilate. Aziraphale scooted forward and extended his wings, letting them wind together with Crowley’s until they were encased in their own dichromatic cocoon. 

“Nothing will change that I love you,” Aziraphale promised. “You must remember that.”

“I won’t be _me_ anymore,” Crowley hissed. “I’ll be this fucking wrecked… _thing_ , what if I can’t let you touch me, what if I can’t do _anything_ , what if there’s nothing left…”

He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard it had to be painful. Aziraphale sat quietly, fists clenched, breathing deep and even, hoping Crowley would join him. He’d learned by now that Crowley preferred to try and stave off the panic on his own when he could.

Gradually Crowley pulled himself together and the tension eased. He looked tired, and slumped forward to lay his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, their wings still wrapped around each other.

“Can we talk about it some other time?” he asked.

Aziraphale’s stomach sank. They had to break this pattern they were in, didn’t they? How could they expect things to improve otherwise?

But he agreed. It was, after all, ultimately up to Crowley what they did and when. It had to be.

“Thank you,” Crowley said. “Here, turn back around. Let me finish up.”

They spoke very little as Crowley finished preening Aziraphale’s wings. By the time he was done the sense of peace had settled back over the room, if a little more precariously. Crowley nuzzled at Aziraphale’s neck and whispered into his ear.

“Hey. Know what we’ve never tried before?”

Aziraphale could think of several answers to that question, but was sure Crowley would manage to surprise him.

“What’s that?”

“Taken a flight together,” Crowley said, arching his wings up impressively. “It’s getting dark. I don’t think anyone’s likely to notice.”

Aziraphale’s first instinct was to protest, to come up with some diplomatic but unshakeable reasons as to why they couldn’t. But then he thought about whipping through the cold night air beside his beloved, watching the stars come out and the lights of London twinkling down below. It was something he never would have thought to do on his own. There were so many things he was discovering that he loved, because Crowley loved them.

“I’d like that very much,” he said.

“Brilliant.” Crowley grinned. “There’s a CEO’s private jet approaching Heathrow in thirty minutes. I know this hilarious trick where you land on the wing and-“

“My dear, you can’t be serious,” Aziraphale balked.

“Ah, come on, you know those corporate types are worse than any demon. If anything we might scare him into good behavior for a few months.”

“You know, I spent six-thousand years learning how to resist your wiles, you old fiend,” Aziraphale said.

“And?” It was clear Crowley could tell he’d already won.

“And now I’m hopelessly in love with you, and all that progress has been undone. The old me wouldn’t know what to make of it.”

“The old you deserved better,” Crowley said, taking Aziraphale’s hand. “We both did. Let’s fly.”

**************

They arrived back at the bookshop very late, drunk on night air and adrenaline and each other.

Crowley didn’t think he would ever again experience something so glorious as rolling and tumbling with Aziraphale through the clouds, kissing as they fell to the earth and laughing as they swooped back up toward the stars.

He had never been so happy.

He knew it wasn’t going to last.

Deep in his heart, he knew that Aziraphale was right. Regaining his lost memories was the only real way to find out what had happened to him and, hopefully, ensure it would never happen again. But oh, was Crowley not looking forward to living in that future. That future tasted like tears, smelled like panic. It was a black hole that would suck up all his courage and wit and joy and leave nothing but a needy, trembling wreck of a creature behind.

Aziraphale promised he would always love him, and Crowley believed the angel would always try. But he had doubts that the person Aziraphale loved would exist, after those memories were returned. Already the panic attacks left Crowley feeling sick with himself, alien in his own skin; how much worse would it be when all those blank spaces were filled with memories of pain and terror?

There’d be nothing left for Aziraphale to love.

But Crowley couldn’t stand the thought that by doing nothing he was putting Aziraphale in danger. He’d have to give in eventually.

Tonight, though, was perfect. He was glad he would be able to go into that terrible future with this memory to comfort him.

One perfect night, where he could be everything Aziraphale deserved. The brave demon who’d helped him save the world, who took him on adventures, who showed him that there was nothing shameful in wanting things. A memory Aziraphale could hold onto, as well, when it was all over.

“I love you,” he said as soon as the bookshop door was closed, taking Aziraphale into his arms. “Deeply, madly, all the ‘-ly’s’ there are.”

“I love you too,” Aziraphale sighed. He leaned his head against Crowley’s shoulder.

The two of them stood, swaying, the rush of flight still singing in their veins, until Aziraphale spoke again. His voice had that joyous, secretive tone that Crowley had learned meant the angel was about to suggest something daring. Of all the tones of voice Aziraphale had, this one had to be in Crowley’s top five favorites.

“There’s something else we haven’t tried before,” he breathed.

Goosebumps broke out on Crowley’s neck and shivered down his spine.

“Quite a few things, actually,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant despite the fact that he’d definitely transitioned from hugging Aziraphale to clutching him.

“Quite a few,” Aziraphale agreed. His kissed Crowley and looked deeply into his eyes, so full of love and trust it took Crowley’s breath away. He smiled.

“Would you like to?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That said, I am sorry for the cliffhanger. I couldn't very well post a 7k chapter that was 2/3 smut, now could I?


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Very_ smutty chapter here, folks. Crowley has some complicated feelings about it all, but no content warnings otherwise.

_Yes._

The answer was yes, was always going to be yes. Every feverish fantasy Crowley had ever had about this moment began with those three little letters. 

He thought it as they made their way up the stairs, leaving a trail of clothes behind them; Aziraphale’s tie draped over the bannister, Crowley’s waistcoat hanging off the washroom doorknob. He moaned it into Aziraphale’s mouth when they hit the mattress, skin to skin, dizzyingly warm after the cool of flying. He shuddered it between greedy kisses, desperate to confirm his consent with every spare breath he had. He could see the questions in Aziraphale’s eyes, the _Are you alright?_ and _Is this too much?_ and _Are you going to fall apart again?_. He didn’t want to hear those questions. They were never meant to be a part of this.

The pace slowed when they were finally naked between the sheets, Aziraphale looking down between them and turning a rather fetching shade of pink.

“You know, I think I’m a bit nervous,” he said.

It was a complicated, but not unfamiliar, feeling that broke over Crowley then. Love and protectiveness were there in equal measure, but bravado made up a large part of it as well. Nerves he could handle. Nerves were _nothing_ for the Original Tempter. 

“This is new for you, yeah?” he asked, laying their faces close so their noses almost touched. Aziraphale nodded.

“I mean, I know how it all works,” he added. “But the…practical application of it all, well-“

“Anything you want. I mean it. As much or as little as you’re ready for.” Yes, this was better, this was the demon that Aziraphale had surely thought about when he had dared to do so. Confident, sensuous, up for anything. Crowley stretched and broke into his most irreverent grin. “I’m all yours.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “But for this first time, I was wondering…might you take the lead, my dear? If you don’t mind.”

Crowley laughed. “Not at all. Though I warn you, we’re in uncharted territory for me too.” He twisted a lock of Aziraphale’s hair around his finger. “You’re my first angel, after all.”

“I trust you,” Aziraphale said, and oh, fuck, he _did_ , Crowley could see it practically radiating off him. Some deep infernal instinct, something dark and primal, reared up in response to it, salivating with need.

“Gonna make you feel so good,” he growled, rolling himself on top. “Wanna make you forget your own name, you have no idea how long I’ve thought about it.”

“Only a bit longer than I have, I’d guess,” Aziraphale replied. His hands moved over Crowley’s arms and chest. “The thoughts I’ve had about you…I was always sure you’d be able to sense them, the next time we met.”

“Never dreamed you’d want me,” Crowley said. He dropped his head to kiss along Aziraphale’s collarbone, to nip softly at his neck. “Never dreamed I’d be so lucky. Fuck, look at you.”

“You…you’re one to talk…have you ever even _looked_ at yourse-oh!” 

Crowley grinned, not an easy thing to do while flicking his tongue against Aziraphale’s nipple, but what self-respecting demon didn’t have a few interesting tricks in bed? He pulled the soft pink bud into his mouth and sucked, and felt Aziraphale’s fingers sliding through his hair. He paused, anticipating that they would start to grab and pull. They didn’t. 

A sort of helpless anger mixed with the relief, just for a second. He’d been quite keen on having his hair pulled, once. Quite keen on lots of rough treatment. He thought his tastes had just changed. But he knew better now, didn’t he?

He shoved those thoughts away. It didn’t matter. What mattered was Aziraphale, trusting him, loving him. What mattered was being the lover Aziraphale deserved.

He worked his way in a winding path down the angel’s torso, worshipping every inch of skin he could reach. When he got low enough that he was eye level with Aziraphale’s cock, dark pink and dewed with pre-come, he ignored it in favor of planting nipping little kisses along the soft skin of his inner thighs, teasing just a little. Someday he’d amuse himself by making Aziraphale beg to be touched, but tonight he didn’t have the willpower to deny him for more than a few seconds. Aziraphale gasped Crowley’s name when he took him in his mouth, and any lingering nerves vanished for Crowley like frost in spring sunlight. 

Whatever else was in the past that he didn’t know about, he knew how to do this. He knew how to do it damn well. If Aziraphale couldn’t benefit from that, it had all been a great bloody waste of time.

He swallowed Aziraphale down until his nose was buried in the soft white-gold hair between his legs, and at no point was he tensed up, waiting for a hand to yank his hair or slap his face or press down on the back of his head and choke him. The thought never even crossed his mind.

Crowley had some guesses about what _take the lead_ had meant that were supported when Aziraphale spread his legs a little wider, and outright confirmed when a small plastic bottle was slipped into his free hand. He had a moment to feel bemused that Aziraphale had purchased actual lubricant instead of just miracling something up, before it occurred to him that that meant Aziraphale had planned ahead, anticipating exactly this sometime in the future. It was an idea that turned Crowley on so much that his fine motor skills were disrupted. He fumbled with the bottle one-handed before pulling his mouth off Aziraphale so that he could actually look at what he was doing.

“I’m gonna use my fingers first to- to open you up,” he explained as he poured some of the lube onto his hand. “Just tell me if you don’t like it, or if you need me to slow down. And as long as it’s comfortable for you, if you want, I can-“

“Fuck me?” Aziraphale asked hopefully.

However Crowley intended to finish his sentence was replaced by a strained, sort of punched-out whining sound. Hardly dignified. 

“Yeah,” he said when he finally remembered how to talk. “Yeah. If you want. _Blessings_ , Aziraphale.”

He watched Aziraphale’s face closely as his fingers circled his rim, ready to withdraw at the slightest sign of discomfort. It continued to delight Crowley that, whatever Aziraphale’s hangups about sex and touching in general, they did not result in Aziraphale being any more recalcitrant in bed than he was elsewhere. He adored how unashamed Aziraphale was in telling him what felt good, telling him he wanted more, telling him to please do something again. He moaned encouragement when Crowley’s fingers slipped inside him, actually pushing himself a little further down when Crowley’s hand stopped moving.

“Shameless,” Crowley teased. He started slowly pumping his fingers in and out, driving deeper a little bit at a time until he hit a spot that made Aziraphale’s eyes flutter in an extremely captivating way. 

“Gorgeous, shameless thing.”

He aimed for that spot again, and again, aware that he was going slack-jawed and quite possibly drooling with lust as he watched Aziraphale respond but unable to care how ridiculous he looked. He withdrew to add a little more lubricant, pushing in now with a third finger, and-

“Stop,” Aziraphale gasped. “Stop, stop.”

Crowley pulled away, a black pit opening at the bottom of his chest. Something was wrong, he’d messed up somehow, of course he had, stupid, mindless beast that he was…

“Sorry,” he said, fighting like mad to keep his hiss from coming forward. “So sorry, did I hurt you?”

Startled blue eyes caught his. “No! No, not at all, I just…” Aziraphale blushed. “I’m so close already, and I want…I want you in me when I…”

Taunts of self-recrimination were echoing so loudly in Crowley’s head that he could only stare in confusion a moment. Then Aziraphale’s words sank in, and he actually laughed in his relief. Aziraphale frowned, a tiny furrow appearing between his brows, so Crowley leaned forward to kiss it away. He rolled back on top of Aziraphale to kiss him fiercely, again and again until they were both short of breath.

“Anything you want, angel,” he whispered. “Anything.”

As he settled between Aziraphale’s knees and slicked up his cock, he was unable to ignore how closely the angel watched him, the look of avid anticipation on his face. Crowley traded in want, made his living in it, but never had he been looked at with such desire by someone who saw him so clearly. It was beyond feeling naked; he felt transparent. It was almost overwhelming, but beneath it all was that steady current of love, the background radiation that now permeated their every moment together.

Almost as soon as he began to slowly push in, Aziraphale’s hand flew down to grip his own dick at the base, trying to delay his climax until Crowley was sheathed all the way inside him. Unable to resist a small display of wickedness, Crowley wrapped his hand around Aziraphale’s and guided it up his shaft, squeezing until he could just feel the angel’s pulse echoing through his palm.

“Come on,” he urged. “I’m right here with you, love. Come for me.”

Aziraphale was keening, eyes screwed shut, clearly driven beyond the power of speech in his attempts to maintain control. A beautiful effort, but a futile one, as Crowley knew it would be. No sooner had he bottomed out than Aziraphale threw his head back, come spurting over his chest and belly. Crowley growled his approval and thrust forward, intent on milking every last drop of release from him, but stilled when the tension in Aziraphale’s limbs snapped and left him spent, shivering, in the demon’s arms.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, trying to catch hold of Aziraphale’s pleasure-hazed eyes. “We can if you want to, ’s’alright with me.”

Aziraphale shook his head, then wrapped his legs around Crowley’s hips, drawing him impossibly close. “Take me,” he moaned. “Please, Crowley, _please_.”

“I fucking love you, angel,” Crowley said. He’d had no idea that was what he was going to say when he opened his mouth. It was just the pure vocalization of what was in his heart, fierce and vulgar and irrevocably true.

“I love you too,” Aziraphale answered. His fingers dug into the wiry muscle of Crowley’s arms as the demon began to move in him. Crowley felt the tiny blooms of pain and welcomed them, anchoring points in the depthless warmth and softness all around him. Had it _ever_ felt this good, this right? He couldn’t imagine so. 

_As far as you know,_ a dark voice cut in. 

Crowley slammed that thought out of his head with more than a little supernatural force, enough that he thought Aziraphale might have noticed, judging by the brief puzzlement on his face. That look melted away, though, when Crowley began to thrust into him with more urgency. He lay back, blissful, luxuriating in the sensation of being fucked. Crowley had never seen anything so erotic. He noticed Aziraphale’s cock growing hard again and groaned helplessly.

“‘M’not gonna last long,” he hissed. “Not unless you want me to cheat it a little.”

He held up his fingers to snap, but Aziraphale shook his head. 

“Please, Crowley, I want- want to see it- you’re so, so lovely…”

Reckless, as always, in the face of Aziraphale’s desires, Crowley thrust in deep and felt his control waver, slip from his grasp and fall away entirely. He cried out sharply, orgasm hitting him like a hard jolt of electricity, hips spasming as his balls emptied. When he regained awareness he was collapsed atop Aziraphale, face pressed into his neck, the angel’s fingers stroking along his shoulder blades and sending shivers down his spine.

“Oh, my love,” he was saying. “Oh, my sweet love.”

Crowley never wanted to move again. He wanted to stay wrapped up like this until the Universe was gathered up, crunched down to the size of an atom and thrown into the celestial bin. He wanted to stay like this until he forgot everything other than this moment, right here, when everything was as it should be.

But Aziraphale probably needed to breathe.

Crowley eased himself out and onto his side, gratefully accepting a flurry of soft kisses as his head came to rest on the pillow next to Aziraphale’s. His hand was gripped, fingers interlaced. He opened his eyes. Aziraphale’s were centimeters from his own, shining like sapphires in the dim bedroom light.

“You know, I always wondered what one says afterward,” Aziraphale said. “I thought in the moment it would come to me, but ‘Thank you’ or ‘Well done’ doesn’t seem right, does it?”

It took Crowley a few moments to pull himself together from laughing. When he managed it, he snaked his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and squeezed him close.

“Who says we’re done?” he whispered. “I’ve never known you to settle for one course when two or three were on offer.”

Aziraphale managed a demure smile, very impressive considering he was still naked and very visibly aroused. “I’d hardly presume-“

“D’you wanna fuck me?” Crowley nuzzled closer, pressing their hips up against each other. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale pulled back, worry creeping into his face. “Are you sure? We don’t have to.”

“I know.” Crowley slid his hand down between them, cupping his softened cock and balls, letting his form reshape and curve inward. “I want to. If you do, too, that is. I want…want you everywhere, angel, want you to have me every way you can…”

 _And I want you to do it now, when I’m reasonably sure I can handle it,_ he thought but didn’t dare say. _Because who knows if it will ever be like this again? Who knows what will be ruined for us forever, when I finally know what I’ve really done?_

What he had spoken aloud was not a lie. It just wasn’t the entire truth. He could forgive himself for that.

Aziraphale’s eyes were dark with desire as he reached up to stroke Crowley’s cheek. 

“You’ll tell me if you want to stop? Promise me.”

“I promise.” Crowley sealed it with a kiss and then rolled Aziraphale onto his back once more, rising up to straddle his thighs. Aziraphale made an appreciative sound and ran his hands up Crowley’s legs to grasp his hips.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, a hint of heavenly authority behind the words. Crowley shivered, surprised to feel heat rising in his own cheeks.

“I want you to finger my arse open while I ride your cock,” he said, unable to look into Aziraphale’s face as he gritted out the words. “I want you to take me in both holes until- until you decide you’re done with me, I don’t want to come unless you think I’ve earned it- I…”

He looked up, certain there must be savagery in his face, scared Aziraphale would shrink back from it. But Aziraphale didn’t, just reached up to cup his cheek again.

“I want to be good for you, angel,” Crowley whispered.

“You are,” Aziraphale said immediately. “You are so, so good, Crowley.”

The praise burned in Crowley’s ears and down into his guts, making him whimper. He scooted forward until his soaking cunt was rubbing against Aziraphale’s cock, clenching around nothing in desire. Aziraphale’s eyes stayed locked on his as he guided himself inside, mouth falling open in a silent gasp when Crowley sank the rest of the way down in one smooth motion. 

“ _Slow_ , darling,” he said. “Please don’t hurt yourself.”

Crowley shook his head, reassuring him that it didn’t hurt. The sensation of being too full, too fast stopped just short of pain, although Crowley knew it could be painful, under different circumstances. Rarely had he had lovers who were gentle. Gentle sorts didn’t tend to bed down with demons, whether they were aware of his true nature or not.

He’d never been afraid before. There was no reason to be afraid now.

He started to roll his hips, letting himself show off a bit, his back arching as a warm, melting feeling began to pulse up from his cunt. Aziraphale’s hands flowed over his chest, his ribs, the scant curves of his rear; Crowley felt as if he were being painted, anointed with holy light.

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale whispered. “So beautiful.”

Sweet, stinging words; Crowley closed his eyes to lose himself in them, snapping out of it only when he felt Aziraphale’s hands close over his hips again, holding him still while the angel pulled himself a little farther upright.

Aziraphale looked around, peering over the edge of the bed and frowning. Crowley snapped his fingers and the little plastic bottle appeared in his hand from the spot on the floor it had rolled off to. 

“Can’t believe you actually went and bought lube, angel,” he laughed.

“It’s important to do things properly,” Aziraphale replied. “I thought it best to defer to the humans’ expertise on this matter, at least for the first time.”

As he spoke he was slicking up his fingers. Crowley realized that this little attempt at banter was meant to soothe him, remind him that the person he was with wasn’t some faceless shadow in his mind who would take whatever it wanted but his old friend, his trusted companion. It was the same trick he’d used when grooming Aziraphale’s wings, and he was once again amazed at how quickly his brilliant angel picked up on things.

“Alright?” Aziraphale whispered as he steadied Crowley in his lap.

Crowley nodded, forcing himself to hold still as Aziraphale’s fingers brushed against his hole. Fingers that were thicker than his own, but soft and so, so gentle. Crowley leaned close and nipped playfully at Aziraphale’s ear.

“I won’t break,” he said. 

“I will never not be careful with you, darling,” Aziraphale answered firmly. “You’re a treasure. I intend to treat you as such.”

His fingers breached Crowley one by one, so meticulously slow and deliberate that Crowley almost screamed. It was so hard to be patient, to be good. He began to move his hips up and down, spearing himself on Aziraphale’s cock and fingers while the angel babbled increasingly strained endearments. Finally he was forced to stop, strong hands gripping him and pulling him up, leaving him empty. Crowley pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s and whined, both from the loss of the sensation and in anticipation of what was going to happen next.

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s waist. “Do you still want me to…“

“Yes,” Crowley moaned. “Yes, fuck me, fuck me, _please._ ”

He was pulled back down, slowly again, so slowly, the head of Aziraphale’s cock pressing against his ass and then pushing in. Crowley sobbed with need as Aziraphale released him, allowing him to set the pace himself. As he sank down he reached between his legs to swirl his fingers over his clit, seeking that swooping pleasure as he was filled up, filled almost more than he could take, and oh, he was so close-

Aziraphale’s hand caught his wrist, gentle but implacable.

“You did say you wanted me to make you wait,” he reminded Crowley softly.

The air between them was thick, charged. An image flickered in Crowley’s head, a flat black disc hanging in a silver sky, and was gone before it could permeate his conscious thoughts.

Had Aziraphale restrained Crowley’s hands further, Crowley would probably have walked back his earlier request; he could tell when they were playing with fire. Aziraphale didn’t keep hold of his wrist, though, just guided Crowley’s hand back to his shoulder and trusted Crowley to keep it there. Then he seized Crowley’s hips again, moving him over his cock, letting him feel every inch as it slid in and out of him. 

“Is this what you wanted, love?”

“Yessss.” Crowley tipped his head back, exposing his throat for Aziraphale’s teeth. “Yes, angel, you feel so good- fuck, Aziraphale, please, I wanna come so bad…”

“Shhh.” Aziraphale held him to the slow, steady pace he’d set. “I’ll take care of you, sweetheart. I’ll always take care of you.”

Crowley nodded, knowing it was true, _needing_ it to be true.

“Always,” Aziraphale moaned, hands tightening on Crowley’s waist. “Ah- oh God, Crowley, _Crowley-_ ”

Hearing the angel’s voice break, hearing him blaspheme and knowing he’d just come inside him, Crowley felt what only could be classified as triumph. This was them claiming one another, tying themselves together, indelibly marking their shared history with their love. This had happened. Nothing could change that.

 _God, Satan, all of you,_ he thought giddily. _Whoever the fuck you are, messing with my mind. Piss off. We win._

The room spun and his back hit the mattress, Aziraphale now over him. Crowley went easily, languid with trust. Aziraphale would take care of him. If Aziraphale wanted to hold him down and fuck him senseless for a few more rounds, then-

-well, Crowley wasn’t actually sure he wanted that-

-but he did if that’s what Aziraphale wanted-

The conflicting thoughts clashed in his mind and threatened to turn into a storm, but already Aziraphale was pulling out of him. Anxiety turned to lust once more as the angel worked his way down Crowley’s body, coming to rest between Crowley’s legs before sucking his throbbing clit into his mouth. Too fucked-out to move or even make much noise, Crowley simply lay back and shivered as he came, legs shaking and fingers clawing weakly at the sheets. 

He came back down to earth to find the two of them boneless, exhausted, damp with sweat. Aziraphale’s head rested on Crowley’s stomach, Crowley’s fingers threaded through his hair. 

Crowley regained the ability to speak first, but found himself with no idea what to say.

“Well done, angel,” he finally settled on. “And thank you, I suppose.”

Aziraphale looked up at him in comical surprise, before registering the smirk on Crowley’s face. He laughed, tired but bright, and crawled up so they could lay face to face.

“That was…” he said, searching for the right word. “Perfect.”

For one horrible second, Crowley thought he might burst into tears. But he held his breath, and it passed.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “It was. It really was.”

**************

He let Aziraphale think he’d fallen asleep.

Metaphysically, a dreaming demon and a scheming demon weren’t all that different. Crowley doubted any angel would be able to tell the difference.

It was like the moment he’d been handed the baby in the basket, what felt like a lifetime ago. There had been a part of Crowley that simply couldn’t accept the future that was being literally handed to him. Here was what must occur, here was what had been decided was best for everyone, and on the other side of it was an existence without breakneck drives in the Bentley, without fine wine and good company, without wit and warmth and surprises. And Crowley had been unable to accept it.

But that was the thing. They’d won. 

Couldn’t he win again?

He was not able to face a future where he and Aziraphale lost what they had just found together. A future where this darkness in his mind got worse instead of better, where Aziraphale’s touch brought fear and self-loathing instead of joy and hope. He couldn’t do it. He _wouldn’t._ He didn’t _have_ to.

They’d saved the bloody world, hadn’t they? Was it so unreasonable to expect they could save their relationship?

Aziraphale read contentedly beside him. Crowley schemed, and perchance dreamed. By the time the sky was turning from black to blue in the square of the window, he had come up with what he thought was a decent enough plan.

It wasn’t perfect. It had flaws that would need to be examined in the cold light of day.

And it would involve hiding some things Aziraphale. Crowley wasn’t happy about that.

But he trusted Aziraphale would forgive him, once it was all over.

That trust, that love. That was what Crowley was fighting for. 

It would make it all worth it in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who needs Gabriel to spoil the afterglow when you've got Crowley's own well-meaning but woefully under-informed impulses? It's about the T E N S I O N, guys.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific warnings for this chapter, but...

“Gonna nip over to my flat for a bit,” Crowley told Aziraphale, who was flipping the bookshop’s _Closed_ sign to _Open_ with his usual magnanimity. “Water the plants, reroute some junk mail to the insurance office across the street, that sort of thing.”

Aziraphale looked up, frowning. “Are you sure, my dear? I thought, for safety’s sake, you might stay here.”

Crowley, who’d been expecting as much, nodded as if Aziraphale had made an excellent point. 

“Here’s the thing, though,” he said. “Either they’re watching us all the time, or they aren’t. If they aren’t, then they’re operating on their own schedule, and there’s nothing we can do about that. But if they are watching us, then they’ll notice us being suddenly joined at the hip when we’ve been giving each other space up until now. Then they might begin to suspect we’re onto them. And then they know that _we_ know, and we’ve lost a major advantage. Get me?”

“Well…” Aziraphale twisted his hands together anxiously.

Crowley held up his phone. “I’m always in touch, love. Anyone so much as looks at me funny, I’ll call you. Just don’t leave the phone off the hook again.”

“That was only that one week, when that dreadful collector from Oxford wouldn’t stop calling,” Aziraphale pointed out. “But alright. Of course you can come and go as you please, darling. Just do be careful.”

“For you, anything,” Crowley said. He kissed Aziraphale softly on the cheek and sauntered out of the shop, just in time to grin at the first regulars of the morning trudging gamely up the street.

He drove the long way around the city, enjoying putting the Bentley through her paces after a few weeks of relative neglect. He stopped outside a building far too charmless to be called a shop; “commerce facility” was probably more accurate. It was the sort of place that sold all the fiendish little machines that Crowley had always been encouraging Hell’s Communications Department to learn more about. He was glad now that those reports had largely been ignored.

He moved up and down the aisles, occasionally picking something up and examining it closely, turning it this way and that. When the lone salesman tried to approach him, Crowley convinced him with only the slightest infernal nudge that instead of helping the customer in the sunglasses, what he really wanted to do was go out to his car and smoke the rest of the joint he had stashed in the glovebox. Thus left to browse in peace, Crowley kept this up until he was certain he had everything he needed. He left the store empty-handed, but there would be a freshly unwrapped assortment of clever gadgets waiting for him in his flat.

He did water his plants, as soon as he got home. He was a little disappointed to find they had all been on excellent behavior in his absence. A proper dressing-down over some shed leaves might have steadied his nerves a bit.

He moved into the dining room, where his newly-acquired heap of wires and microchips and batteries waited for him on the long polished table. He read over each accompanying instruction manual carefully. It was reasonable to expect that he would not be able to rely on his miraculous powers for anything when push came to shove. He intended to really grit his teeth over doing this the human way, even if deciphering the esoteric instructions gave him a headache within ten minutes. 

When he was finally sure he had it sorted out, he began to move about the flat, checking angles, tucking things into corners, moving decor just so. Luckily the color scheme he favored made it quite easy to hide any number of small black objects. When he did a final walkthrough after everything was placed, he was confident that nothing looked out of the ordinary.

His largest acquisition, a sleek, gunmetal gray laptop, he carried into the living room. He watched himself cross the screen, first through one square in the upper left corner, then one in the middle. He stopped and turned and watched his smaller self do the same on the screen in his hand.

He smiled, relieved that his old knack for technology had not yet failed him.

He concealed the laptop in his safe, next to the tartan thermos; empty, but kept for sentimental reasons. 

Now there was nothing to do but wait.

He flipped channels on the television. He paged through a back-issue of the the _Infernal Times_ , carefully reading each sentence of an editorial while absorbing none of the words. He played _The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust_ at full volume, rewinding the opening verse of “Rock ’n’ Roll Suicide” over and over. 

When he heard a noise outside he froze, stock-still, in the middle of the living room. He waited for several minutes, but the hallway outside remained quiet. When he was positive that the neighbor or deliveryman or whoever had made the noise had fucked off for good, he marched straight into the washroom and vomited, painfully.

After, with cold water drying on his face and his hands still shaking faintly, he checked his watch. 

No missing time. Aziraphale would be expecting him back soon.

It wasn’t going to be today.

That was fine, he reminded himself. He hadn’t expected it to happen today, had hoped it wouldn’t. If anything this was good news; it meant he wasn’t being watched so closely that whoever was messing with him knew exactly when he was alone in his flat.

He called Aziraphale and asked if he should pick anything up from the shops on the way home. Just the sound of the angel’s pleasantly distracted voice on the other end of the phone helped slow his racing heartbeat.

He left his flat with no small amount of relief, and went back to where it was safe.

**************

It wasn’t as hard to establish a routine as he’d originally feared.

Aziraphale wasn’t wild about Crowley’s trips out alone, but he could hardly argue that they still needed their time to themselves occasionally. He did insist that Crowley buy him a mobile and show him how to use it, which Crowley happily did. He’d assumed the angel would loathe the concept of texting, but he actually took to it rather quickly, and being able to communicate his passing thoughts to Crowley even when they were apart seemed to relax him more than any of Crowley’s face-to-face reassurances. 

So it went. They lazed about the shop and went out to enjoy the town and laughed and drank and made love. Once in a while, Aziraphale would bring Crowley some result of his research, some method of possibly recovering the memories he had discovered, and Crowley would, as subtly as possible, make some point about how that method was a bit too risky, or probably wouldn’t work on a demon, or worked best when the moon was in a position that only occurred every six-hundred years. And Aziraphale would grudgingly agree and go back to his research.

Meanwhile, Crowley developed his own solo routine as well. Upon arriving at his flat, he’d review the footage from the laptop, watch the shadows move across the empty rooms as day after day went by. Once that was done, he would tend to his plants, his disposition with them largely based on how bad his nightmares had been the night before. He would play records, anything at hand that was bold and sharp and sexy, sort of a cosmic taunt thrown out to the universe, or maybe just a way to remind himself that he could still enjoy such things. He rattled the windows with Bowie and Lou Reed and The Dresden Dolls and The Smiths and The Psychedelic Furs, always ready to snap the music off the second he felt a twinge of energy that was out of the ordinary. But none of the twinges ever led to any missing time, and his review of the footage before his departure revealed nothing.

He would wait until the record he was playing ended, or until Aziraphale texted him asking if he’d be long, or when he got so scared waiting for something to happen that he made himself sick again, and then he would sort himself out and go home.

The bookshop had become home, at some point. Or no, that wasn’t right. Wherever Aziraphale was became home. Even in his terror, he could not help but feel delight at that.

It lasted just long enough to become, if not comfortable, then at least familiar. Just routine enough for him to hope that maybe they were dealing with something that had ended, not something that was still happening.

Just long enough to hurt when he turned out to be wrong.

**************

The morning that it all went bad, Aziraphale watched the Bentley pull away from the shop and reminded himself, as he had begun doing every day, to not let the perfect be the enemy of the good.

He wanted, more than anything, for Crowley to be safe. But he also wanted Crowley to be happy, and neither one of them would be happy with Crowley locked up in the bookshop, kept under glass like one of Aziraphale’s first editions. If Crowley needed to go back to his flat to tend to his plants and listen to his dreadful music and enjoy some demonic solitude, Aziraphale could hardly stand in the way of that. Not while still considering himself a worthy romantic partner.

He was no stranger to anxiety. Heaven had trained it into him well, and he had taught himself to cope with the physical responses. The way his stomach felt as if it were being wrung between two massive hands every time he sent Crowley a text and waited for the reply was a small price to pay for the joy that was being happy, together, almost all of the time.

Some satisfied customer, or more likely, some deeply unsatisfied customer seeking revenge, had put the bookshop’s location on a tourist website and advertised it as “a hidden gem with lots of local charm”, so Aziraphale had his hands full all morning deflecting slack-jawed intruders towing fidgety children and brandishing foreign currency. He didn’t realize until his stomach rumbled that half the day had been and gone. He texted Crowley asking if he wanted to meet at the Thai place near the park, and told himself the immediate twisting in his gut that followed hitting _Send_ was just a hunger pang.

Thirty seconds passed, and Aziraphale wasn’t worried. Crowley probably wasn’t in the mood for Thai, and was taking a minute to riposte with an alternative suggestion.

Sixty seconds passed, and Aziraphale wasn’t worried. Perhaps Crowley had set his phone down before moving into another room, and hadn’t seen the text yet. Never mind that Aziraphale had never seen Crowley put the phone anywhere but right back in his pocket when he was done with it.

Two minutes passed, and Aziraphale was starting to get a little worried, but there was most likely a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Crowley hadn’t texted back yet. He would reply any second now, and Aziraphale would feel like a perfect fool for getting so worked up.

After five minutes, Aziraphale decided he wasn’t hungry after all.

After six minutes and fifteen seconds, he pulled up Crowley’s number again and pressed _Call_.

The back of his mouth tasted like a lemon that had gone bad.

 _He will pick up,_ he told himself as his heart sluggishly counted off the seconds between rings. _I will be hearing his voice in no time at all, and everything will be fine. It will be. He will pick up. He will._

_Please. Please let him pick up. Please._

**************

Despite promising himself that he would be, Crowley wasn’t ready when it finally happened.

He was just meandering down the hallway, looking at his phone, thumbing through some restaurant reviews and contemplating how he would make things up to Aziraphale for posting about the bookshop on that tourist website. It was a placeholder between moments, a transitional space where nothing important was supposed to happen. He had a split second when he realized something had changed, and then a pair of hands were on his shoulders, shoving him up against the wall.

 _This is it,_ was all he was able to think. _This is it, let me be brave, please let me be brave._

Whatever happened to him, he was going to have to watch the footage of it later. And he was probably going to have to show it to Aziraphale.

He was going to do his best not to scream or cry or beg. The both of them could stand to be spared that.

He looked into Gabriel’s face, and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

 _No,_ he thought wildly. _Give me Asmodeus. Give me the Mother of Spiders. Give me Leviathan themself, all twenty feet of them. Anyone but the bastard who tried to burn my angel._

“Gabriel,” he managed to choke out, already not liking the strained quality of his voice. “What the fuck are you doing in my flat?”

Crowley’s phone, still clutched in his right fist, buzzed once, signaling a text.

 _Shit._ Aziraphale would be worried if a long time went by with no reply. Best to get whatever was going to happen over with quickly.

“Actually, you know what, I’m not interested in the reason you’re here. Just get out,” he snapped. His voice sounded a little better, now. A little more venomous. 

“Nice to see you too, gorgeous,” Gabriel said. He was gripping Crowley’s shoulders hard enough to leave bruises. “I have a surprise for you. Went through an awful lot of trouble.”

“Wasted effort, Gabs. Not big on surprises. You’re not either, to hear Aziraphale tell it.” Bloody Heaven, but there were so many ways this could go wrong. One slip of the tongue in all sorts of different ways could mean swift and permanent death for both of them. 

Gabriel’s smug smile grew wider. “I was worried about Aziraphale, for a while. That trick with the Hellfire threw me for a loop, I’ll admit it. But I’m not worried about him anymore. Or you. It’s all part of the Plan. I have to remember that.”

Well, that was ominous. Crowley thought it might be best to change tactics, get him away from the subject of their trials. Make him angry, keep him from thinking too clearly.

“You know, I could never understand how God could apparently love you so much and yet make you so bloody stupid. Think about all the holy deeds you could accomplish if She’d bothered to stow all your gear right-“

His words were cut off by Gabriel punching him in the stomach. The shot landed perfectly and doubled Crowley over, or it would have if Gabriel wasn’t still holding him up, pressing him closer to the wall and grinding against him as he struggled to refill his lungs. His phone slid out of his hand and clattered to the floor.

“You’ve backslid, since Aziraphale got his hooks into you,” Gabriel hissed, gripping Crowley’s chin and forcing him to look up. “It’s been decades since you dared to mention Her in front of me.”

“Don’t know…what you’re talking about,” Crowley wheezed. Keep up the facade, that was the important bit, don’t tell him anything he didn’t already know, Crowley was a _professional_ , dammit…

“I know,” Gabriel said. “But you really don’t need the details, Crowley. You say Her name, I hurt you. That’s all you need to keep in mind.”

Crowley’s phone, forgotten on the floor between them, started buzzing. They both looked down, and Crowley’s heart twisted.

The picture that popped up when Aziraphale called was a candid shot Crowley had snapped two weeks ago, catching the angel in profile standing by the bookshop’s old-fashioned till with some new and intriguing acquisition in front of him. The look on his face was a curious mixture of deep contentment and ruthless inquisitiveness, so much of what he loved about Aziraphale rolled into one puzzling moment. 

Crowley hated the thought of Gabriel seeing that picture. He’d rather stomp the phone into a thousand pieces than let Gabriel look at it a second longer.

“Pick it up,” Gabriel ordered.

Not taking his eyes off Gabriel, Crowley obeyed. He expected to be thrown to the floor or slammed into the wall again, but Gabriel let him straighten up, the phone still vibrating in his hand.

“You’re going to answer it,” Gabriel said. “You’re going to tell him that he won’t be seeing you again. Say whatever you have to to make him believe it.”

“Piss on that,” Crowley snarled. “Whatever you’re doing here, we’re leaving him out of it.”

The phone stopped buzzing, the notification for a missed call lighting up the screen. Gabriel’s smile didn’t waver.

“Call him back right now and do what I told you,” he said quietly. “Or, I can break your spine and we can wait for him together. He’ll come looking for you eventually. You can lie on the floor and watch me find out how slowly I can discorporate him. And I’ll make sure he never, _ever_ gets another body. Up to you.”

The phone was growing slippery with the sweat from Crowley’s palm. He had to find some way to warn Aziraphale about what was happening. Some way that wouldn’t put the angel in even more danger.

“You’ve made up your mind, then? Plan B? Alright, hold still, this may take a few tries.”

Gabriel’s hands tightened on Crowley’s arms.

“No!” Crowley said. “No, don’t, just…I’ll call him, okay? Please don’t hurt him.”

Act just beaten enough to satisfy them. Some things every demon knew without being told.

Gabriel nodded pointedly at the phone.

Crowley dialed, fingers shaking. Aziraphale answered on the first ring, and Crowley’s heart sank to subterranean depths.

“Crowley! Are you alright? I tried to call and you didn’t answer, I was worried-“

“Yeah,” Crowley interrupted. The phone wasn’t on speaker mode, but Gabriel was standing so close that Crowley thought he was probably able to hear both sides of the conversation. “Sorry about that, angel. Look, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Of course. Crowley, what’s wrong? You sound upset.”

_Say whatever you have to to make him believe it._

“I…I won’t be coming around the shop for a while. Need to figure some things out on my own, without, er, distractions.”

In the silence that followed, Crowley found himself hoping that whatever Gabriel was going to do to him would hurt, badly. He deserved it and worse for doing this to Aziraphale.

“I see,” Aziraphale said in a small voice. “I…I’m sorry. Did- did I do something wrong?”

The rack, the choke-pear, anything involving electrodes he could think of, all of it was too good for him.

“No,” Crowley whispered. “Nothing wrong. I’ve just been…”

Painfully aware of Gabriel’s eyes on his face, Crowley bit down on his lip. Fighting back tears, or to control his hiss. Not being particularly successful at either.

“Missssing time to myssself, is all.”

He heard the slightest hitch in Aziraphale’s breathing. Something too quick and quiet for almost anyone to notice, except for a being who had spent untold hours listening to Aziraphale’s softest of sounds and watching the subtlest of expressions play across his face.

A tiny spark of hope flickered in the back of Crowley’s mind.

Aziraphale was speaking again, sounding more measured although still a bit sniffly.

“I see. Some time apart. I understand. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”

The weight behind Aziraphale’s words was unmistakable. He was offering to rush to Crowley’s rescue, right then. 

_Brave angel. Brave, clever angel._

Of course Crowley couldn’t allow him to endanger himself like that. But if he was clever too, he might be able to leave Aziraphale some clue.

“Best I go it alone, I think,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Don’t worry, it’s sssafe here. Not even holy water can hurt me, remember?”

Another pause. In his mind’s eye Crowley could see Aziraphale, brows knit, eyes narrowed as he parsed the odd wording of what Crowley just said. Tension burned under Crowley’s skin. If Aziraphale made any reference to missing time or mysterious stalkers, the game would very likely be up.

“You’re right, of course,” Aziraphale said. Crowley bit down on his cheek to keep his relief from showing on his face. “I just wish there was something I could do, darling.”

Gabriel sighed, impatient. His left hand had drifted to Crowley’s waist, and the thumb was running anxious little circles on the jut of his hip. Crowley had to fight the urge to slap it away as if it were a cockroach.

“There isn’t,” Crowley said, forcing himself to sound cold but unable to stop a tear from squeezing out the corner of his eye. Gabriel tracked it as it rolled down his cheek. “Not your fault, angel. I think we just rushed into things a bit too quickly. Bit off more than I could chew.”

The horrible thought occurred to him that their coded messages were nothing but wishful thinking on Crowley’s part, and that Aziraphale actually thought Crowley meant everything he was saying. But of course it was too late to do anything about that, and Gabriel looked ready to cut the conversation off himself if Crowley didn’t do it.

“We’re still friends,” Crowley blurted. Then, disguising his hesitation by clearing his throat, “Always have been. Sssince the year I ssslithered onto this ridiculous planet. Nothing will change that.”

“I hope so, my dear,” Aziraphale said, with unmistakable sadness. “Goodbye for now.”

“Bye.” Crowley disconnected the call and glared at Gabriel. The archangel was smiling like a man coming off a hard shift at work into a well-deserved long weekend.

“Happy?” Crowley asked, unable to keep the fury out of his voice.

Gabriel plucked the phone from Crowley’s hand and crushed it in his fist. 

“I was hoping you’d be meaner, to be honest.” He tossed the mangled phone over his shoulder. “No wonder he turned out to be such a lousy soldier, being coddled like that. By a demon, no less. I was kind of hoping he’d cry. Do you think you could make him cry if we called him back?”

The eagerness in Gabriel’s voice made Crowley completely forget that his phone had just been destroyed. He shook his head fiercely.

“We’re not doing that.”

“C’mon, you wouldn’t even have to remember it if you really didn’t want to. Neither would he! Actually, that could be a lot of fun.” Gabriel’s eyes took on a misty, faraway quality. “We _could_ always make a quick stop on our way…”

No other threat could have made Crowley do what he did next. 

Gabriel’s face was so close to his their foreheads almost touched. All Crowley had to do was lift his chin slightly. There was a zap of static electricity, then the stomach-churning sensation of their lips touching, the archangel’s firm and dry against his own.

Gabriel made a pleased sound deep in his chest and clutched him tighter. 

“You’re right,” he said. “Forget Aziraphale. You and I have some catching up to do.”

Crowley felt a crackle of electricity through his bones, and then they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Pain Train has now left the station.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cold-Blooded](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29026506) by [rowenablade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowenablade/pseuds/rowenablade)




End file.
